


Chase a Shadow

by stardropdream (orphan_account)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Denial of Feelings, Emotional Manipulation, Hate Sex, Hetalia Kink Meme, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 10:18:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fueled by the superior war experience of his allies, Alfred sets out to gain the upperhand over Arthur, through the use of his body and the eventual breaking of Arthur. But there's a difference between keeping your enemies close and just plain sleeping with the enemy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Matching Beats

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on the Hetalia kink meme and reposted to LJ September 15, 2011.
> 
> The original prompt was for either Revolutionary war or War of 1812 in which one sleeps with the enemy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred sets his master plan in motion.

  
“What in heaven’s name are you doing here?” Arthur asked, looking startled to see Alfred standing there in his house, dripping with the rainwater from the outside, his hair plastered to his forehead. The door swung shut behind him. He stood there, dripping.  
  
Alfred didn’t say anything right away, because he found that capturing words was a bit too difficult in the given situation. But he refused to slant his eyes away. He believed it had to be a good sign, if Arthur was not reaching for his musket or any kind of weapon, upon seeing his enemy—his rebellious colony—standing in his front room as if he belonged there.  
  
“I’m visiting you,” Alfred said, tried to stay calm and keep the waver from his voice.  
  
Arthur’s eyes narrowed at him, and he walked steadily around the room, a seemingly absently-guided perimeter that Alfred knew was perfectly strategic, Arthur’s way of taking Alfred in without having to come close. Alfred had always been able to see through this, whenever Arthur attempted diplomacy, attempted schooled distance.  
  
Alfred held strong. He knew what he had to do, and he didn’t like it. It hadn’t necessarily been his idea, but it had spawned from his people, with strategic advice from Francis, Gilbert, and Antonio. To keep the enemy close. There were still ties of kinship between Alfred and Arthur, they argued, and that was something that should be exploited. To learn the colonizer’s weaknesses, his strategies. Secretly, Alfred doubted the validity and possible success of such a plan, but he was never one to back down from a challenge. And he would do everything he could, in the end, to win this fight and be free of Arthur—even if that meant flocking to Arthur’s side. If only for the time being, he silently reminded himself.  
  
“Visiting,” Arthur repeated, at last, weighing the word. Alfred almost cringed.  
  
The room was unnaturally silent, and Arthur came to a stop in front of Alfred, but with a respectable distance between them.  
  
“Yes,” Alfred said, trying to stay calm.  
  
“Are you forgetting that you have seen fit to break away from me, my dear lad?” Arthur murmured, regarding him with cool neutrality.  
  
“I haven’t forgotten,” Alfred said.  
  
“So I suppose this visit is not because you have decided to return to me.”  
  
“No,” Alfred agreed. He took a step forward, and watched Arthur’s shoulders stiffen. “But regardless of a fight or a battle or a war, I can still visit my brother if I see fit, can’t I?”  
  
The word _brother_ almost choked on his tongue. How he loathed to speak it, how he loathed to reestablish that tie to Arthur. He reminded himself, quietly in the back of his mind, that he did not have to mean the words he said. He only had to make sure Arthur believed it.  
  
Alfred continued to walk towards Arthur. Arthur’s eyes narrowed further.  
  
Alfred paused a short distance in front of him, staring at his enemy’s face. Enemy. That was all Arthur was and all he ever would be, for Alfred. The trick, now, Francis had outlined in full, with strategic insights from Antonio, and muffled curses from Gilbert, was to make Arthur believe that Alfred believed these things. To keep Arthur close, to fool him, to bring him so close that it would be child’s play to break him. The moment that Arthur let his guard down, the moment that he provided Alfred the opening—that would be the finishing blow, the only way to break Arthur’s stronghold, the only way for such a shattering moment to hum in the veins of all of Arthur’s soldiers—to ensure, above all else, that Alfred would be free.  
  
Alfred was willing to do anything, for a chance at that.  
  
Arthur, meanwhile, was watching him very closely, his expression betraying nothing as he watched Alfred approach.  
  
“Alfred,” Arthur said, abruptly, the single name somehow incredibly halting.  
  
Alfred did freeze, staring at Arthur.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
Arthur did not say anything for a long moment, simply regarded Alfred’s face, his own eyes narrowed, his lips a flat line. But still he did not move to kick Alfred from the house, or grab his weapon.  
  
 _Sentimental fool,_ Alfred could not help but think.  
  
It’d been a simple plan, laid out before Alfred. It’d taken a few months for Alfred to work out the finer details (and, if he was honest, to work up the courage to even attempt something like this). Alfred was one to battle in the fields, holding his weapon, tasting blood in the air. Attempting to use feelings was something that Alfred had never considered before, as a detriment or as a weapon. Antonio had argued that Arthur had done it all the time, in the past (and Alfred had not missed the way the Spaniard had suppressed a shiver). Francis confirmed, though, that Arthur could be incredibly brutal, in areas like that—so it was not shameful, to give the man a taste of his own medicine, especially if it meant Alfred would gain the upper hand.  
  
No, Alfred was responsible, now, to keep his enemy close to him. And Alfred would do just that. It was how Francis and Antonio encouraged him to _keep_ his enemy close that caused Alfred a bit of unease (and Gilbert, too, usually spent these meetings muttering in the background about how foolish this entire thing was and how brute strength was favorable).  
  
But Alfred would not back down.  
  
“What is it?” Alfred asked again, because Arthur had still said nothing.  
  
“Why are you here, truly?” Arthur asked.  
  
Alfred did not miss a beat, he just smiled. He took a step towards Arthur, hoping that the fact that he felt disgusted, felt completely loathsome and was actually shaking slightly—hoping none of that could show on his face. He had to rely on Arthur’s sentimentality to disallow him from seeing through Alfred’s plan.  
  
“I wanted to visit you,” Alfred murmured. “Even though we are fighting a war—is it forbidden that I should see you?”  
  
“You never have before,” Arthur said simply.  
  
“I’m tired,” Alfred said. “Not enough to stop this war, but I… wanted to see _you._ Not England. You, Arthur. Brother.”  
  
He let the last word drop off into a whisper. He suppressed the loathing.  
  
Arthur still seemed stony faced, but there was a brief moment when the corner of his eye shifted—and in that moment, it seemed as if everything was revealed.  
  
“Indeed,” Arthur murmured, sounding disbelieving.  
  
Alfred took that simple exhalation as a good sign, and took another step closer. “Arthur,” he murmured. “Won’t you…”  
  
Arthur remained silent.  
  
Alfred stood in front of him now, their bodies so close—almost touching. It was now or never. Alfred let his eyes flicker to Arthur’s.  
  
“I…” Alfred began, and partly from the act he was trying to do, and partly because he was honestly hesitated, his words trailed off.  
  
“Out with it, boy,” Arthur muttered.  
  
Alfred licked his lips, and took that final step, so that there was no denying that Alfred was _too close._  
  
“Won’t you take me, brother?”  
  
“… What?” was Arthur’s hollow, strained response. He betrayed nothing on his face, save for the briefest moment when his expression flickered. It was barely anything. Alfred could only see it because he’d spent decades looking at Arthur and studying his face.  
  
“Take me,” Alfred repeated, calmly, doing his best to mimic Arthur’s own face: stony coolness, nonchalance, _there is nothing that I am hiding._ “Make me yours again.”  
  
“You… are my brother,” Arthur hissed, and he jerked his eyes away, his face igniting into a red flame.  
  
 _Ah._  
  
What a fool.  
  
Alfred tipped his chin up, let his eyes fall to half-mast. “Yes,” he breathed, trying to keep the waver from his voice, “so who better for me to give my body to? You own my lands already. I’m trying to earn them back, so why not take what you can spare while you can?”  
  
There was a long pause before Arthur turned his face again. Arthur stared at him, eyes widened and disbelieving. Alfred held his breath—would Arthur believe him? Could he see through Alfred’s lie? Or would his sentimentality blind him to the reality around him? Arthur pressed himself up against the wall, and it was such a rare moment for Arthur to actually appear _cornered._ But Alfred couldn’t help but think that, yes, he had Arthur cornered, couldn’t help but think that he was the one with the upper hand. That he had Arthur right where he wanted him. Right in the palm of his hand. The way Arthur was staring up at him betrayed everything and nothing—and just enough.  
  
“How could you possibly want such a thing?” Arthur hissed.  
  
Alfred paused. He backed a little away, to give Arthur space. He had to be subtle, he had to be nuanced. He could not be blatant, he could not be forceful in his attempted seduction—god, how he loathed to think the word; and, god, did he not want to think of how his people would behave—oh god, the Puritans, the Quakers! Alfred closed his eyes, and set a steadying hand down on the table, leaning against it calmly, training his eyes on Arthur, keeping his chin tipped slightly forward so the shadows cast slowly across his face in a desirable manner. His hair was soft, and fell in one eye. He watched Arthur.  
  
“How?” Alfred repeated. “Is it so hard to believe?”  
  
Arthur’s lips thinned into a curt line.  
  
Alfred just smiled in reply. “Have you not seen how I’ve grown, Arthur? Have you not seen how I’ve watched you for so many years?”  
  
Arthur didn’t reply right away, but that was fine. Alfred turned away and walked along the table’s length, his fingers dragging across the grain of the wood. He swallowed thickly, recalling the words he’d rehearsed with Francis weeks ago, the words falling onto his tongue like bitter honey.  
  
“I grew, and I would always watch you. You have always been the one that I’ve desired, Arthur,” Alfred murmured. He tipped his chin up, and looked over his shoulder at Arthur. He still hadn’t moved. Alfred smiled, tried to let just a touch of nervousness into his eyes—for sincerity’s sake. “I grew and I changed for you. I tried to deny it… say that the feelings weren’t there… but…”  
  
Here, he paused, at the head of the table, his fingers dragging up the length of a candlestick holder, his eyes on the flickering flame there. Wax drizzled down the length of the candle, and Alfred knew the light was reflecting of his face and shuddering in his eyes—and he could only hope that Arthur did not see through him, did not see straight to his heart and see all the hatred and disgust he felt in that moment. There could be no mistake for his feelings in these moments. He could not delude himself—how could he delude even Arthur, who Antonio always stressed was a master of such wordplay and manipulation? Could Alfred truly go through with it, to let Arthur _take him_ as if he was some kind of spoils of war, as if he was not anything but the expanse of his lands and the taxations of his people?  
  
His eyes flickered up and met Arthur’s across the room. Arthur still hadn’t moved, but he was watching Alfred intently.  
  
Alfred offered a slightly sloppy smile, letting the lights from the candles light up his eyes, to disguise the way they really looked at Arthur. He had to pretend more, he had to try harder. He lowered his eyes, submissiveness, a coy smile still on his lips, as he made his way back towards Arthur. He half expected Arthur to move away, or push Alfred away once he was close. But, no, he just stayed still as Alfred came to a stop in front of him. Alfred lifted his hands, dragging his fingertips over the heavy red wool of Arthur’s jacket.  
  
“Alfred…” Arthur began.  
  
But Alfred just shook his head, his fingers curling into the lapels of Arthur’s jacket, holding tight, his thumbs pressing against the buttons of the jacket. He kept his eyes lowered, smothered the grimace he felt coiling around his spine—painful. This was too painful. But he had to do it. If it meant winning, if it meant being free—he would perform as many sins as he needed.  
  
His thumbs pushed the button out of its hole. He saw Arthur swallow.  
  
“Wait—” he said, quietly. Arthur looked as if he was about to raise his hand, but Alfred grasped it by the wrist before it could move.  
  
Alfred flickered his eyes up as he pushed open the other button. Alfred smiled.  
  
“Don’t you want me?” he asked. “Isn’t that the entire reason why you’re fighting? For a reason to have me all over again—don’t you want me?”  
  
He watched Arthur swallow again, watched the way Arthur stared at him, his eyes flickering over Alfred’s face. Alfred just continued to smile, and brushed the coat aside.  
  
Still locking his eyes on Arthur’s, Alfred slowly lowered himself down onto one knee, his hands dragging down Arthur’s chest, falling to the line of his trousers. His fingers pulled at the knots and buttons holding his trousers up, his eyes never once leaving Arthur. Arthur, for his part, did look as if he wanted to run away, wanted to push Alfred away. And yet he did not. And yet, he let Alfred tug his trousers down, let Alfred’s chilled hand grasp around Arthur’s limp cock, and stroke until it plumped up in his hands.  
  
 _Disgusting,_ was all Alfred could think. _What a disgusting, sentimental fool._  
  
His fingers dragged over the fiery skin, and Arthur’s expression wavered for half a moment. Then he closed his eyes, and lifted his other hand, pushing at the hair on Alfred’s head, pushing the golden locks away from his forehead. Alfred only smiled.  
  
“You do want me,” Alfred murmured, still smiling. “It’s alright.” Here, he swallowed, and spoke as naturally as before: “I want you, too.”  
  
Something was pressing against his chest. He ignored it. He lowered his eyes as he lowered his mouth onto the head of Arthur’s cock. He sucked, uneasy, unused to doing such things—he only had lackadaisical instructions from Francis and Antonio (who both kept getting distracted trying to describe sex to Alfred by trying to show sex to Alfred; Gilbert spent these meetings muttering about honors of war). Alfred’s movements were clumsy at first, but it didn’t seem as if Arthur was complaining. But he wasn’t encouraging, either. He was deathly silent. Alfred didn’t dare look up again at Arthur as he sucked his cock into his mouth. He tried to relax his throat, but he felt like he was going to choke at any moment. He didn’t try to swallow him, only pressed his tongue against the underside of the hard cock, stroking it with his tongue and sliding his lips over the ridge of the cockhead and down the length. One hand grasped at Arthur’s hip, and the other hand cupped Arthur’s balls, massaging them in his hands as he tried to take in as much of Arthur as he could.  
  
Still, Arthur was quiet. But he could tell that Arthur was enjoying it, because occasionally he jerked his hips. He tried to suppress the movement, and Alfred held onto his hip tightly to keep him stationary as his inexperienced and inexpert mouth moved over the length, his tongue stroking at the thick vein in his cock, swirling around the tip, and hollowing his mouth to capture the hot flesh into the pocket of his cheek, avoiding his teeth as much as possible. His tongue stroked at the flesh and little by little he took more of Arthur into his mouth.  
  
It took a little while, but eventually Alfred felt as if he might actually be enjoying this. If he could ignore that it was _Arthur_ , he could admit to himself there was something exciting about stroking his fingers along the base of a hot cock, his tongue tasting the flesh, his lips pillowing along the cockhead, dusty with blood-flow, and relaxing his throat as much as possible so he could press the cock against the flat of his tongue and try to swallow Arthur. Arthur was too big and Alfred was too inexperienced to take too much, but as he progressed, he was able to swallow more. He curled his tongue along the length of the cock, cradled it in his hands, and curled his lips around the tip, suckling and slurping. Because of Arthur’s silence, he stayed silent, too, even though he wanted to moan as his own cock plumped up in his trousers and strained against the fabric. Eventually one of Alfred’s hands fell down to his own crotch, and rubbed. His hips circled and he writhed against his hand as he rubbed at himself as his mouth copied the movements against Arthur’s own cock.  
  
Arthur’s hands curled into Alfred’s hair, and held him. Alfred, despite his better judgment, let his eyes drift upward towards Arthur’s face again. Arthur was staring down at him, his lips slightly parted, his face flushed, his eyes only and completely on Alfred. Alfred smiled around the cock in his mouth and sucked more into his mouth, feeling a bit of salvia threaten to dribble down his chin. He opened his mouth, let his tongue drag over the tip, before he pulled away from the cock to look properly up at Arthur. As he shifted, the cock dragged across his cheek, just briefly, but Alfred paid it no mind. He was in strange, foreign territory now, but if the way the sweat was shining Arthur’s forehead was any indication, he was doing a good job.  
  
“Arthur,” Alfred murmured, in just the right kind of husky tone that Francis had tried to show him before. His heart thudded against his chest and he suppressed all the feelings roiling in his gut. He couldn’t address them now, didn’t want to address them now. He swallowed thickly. Memories from the years before the war were inexplicably bubbling in his chest—and this was not the time to revisit them. No, it would never be the time again.  
  
Especially when Alfred was determined to make Arthur release in his mouth. Arthur still said nothing, though he at least looked as if he might, and Alfred just fisted his fingers around the cock and pumped a few times before taking it back into his mouth, corkscrewing his head down the length and pulling back up with an audible pop as the cock left his mouth. He continued this, his hand dragging down the cock and Alfred’s mouth following him, swirling his tongue and his lips around and along the length until Arthur, despite himself, let out a tiny gasp and jerked his hips up to meet Alfred’s movements.  
  
Alfred choked but didn’t dare pull his mouth away. He pushed the flat of his tongue against the tip of Arthur’s cockhead, teasing the slit with his tongue and sucking and blowing his hot breath against the feverish skin. Arthur shivered, and Alfred grinned in his triumph before plumping his lips against the length again, dragging slowly down it in feather-light touches that drove Arthur wild—if the ceaseless, jerking thrusts of Arthur’s hips were any indication.  
  
He kissed along the underside, lapping his tongue over the length and leaving bruising, open-mouthed kisses against the hot flesh. Arthur murmured something, but the words were unintelligible as Alfred continued his task, now fully absorbed in getting his goal. Arthur’s hips continued to thrust, and Alfred used both his hands to push Arthur back against the wall. This way, Arthur couldn’t choke him, and Alfred dove into the task of driving the cock hard into his mouth. He bobbed his head, mimicking the movements Arthur’s thrusts had done and took the cock into his mouth, until the cockhead pressed against the resistance of his tongue or the smooth of his cheek. He kept his mouth open, taking the cock into his mouth, tasting the flesh, tasting the thrum of blood.  
  
Soon, though, he felt Arthur tensing up beneath his hands, and he froze, sucking the cockhead into his mouth and staring up at Arthur as Arthur jerked his hips one last time and Alfred could taste the seed filling his mouth. Alfred didn’t take his eyes off Arthur as he sucked it into his mouth. Arthur’s face was completely closed off, his mouth flopped open and his eyes slammed shut as his body shuddered uncontrollably under Alfred’s touches. Alfred sucked it into his mouth and, with only a little bit of disdain, swallowed the seed. It slid down his throat and he felt his entire body burn. The pressure against his trousers was almost painful, but he resisted.  
  
Once he’d had his fill, once he knew that Arthur was completely spent, Alfred pulled his mouth away from Arthur’s cock, and then reverently did the buttons and ties of his trousers. Then, slower still, he did the buttons of Arthur’s jacket and slowly rose to his feet, rose to his full height over Arthur. Arthur stared at him, dazed and only slightly unsure. Alfred smiled again, tried to make it soft even though his lips were red and swollen from the actions. He leaned in, as if to touch his lips to Arthur’s, to kiss him.  
  
Arthur closed his eyes and turned his face away. Alfred didn’t stop moving, though, and just buried his face into Arthur’s hair, nosing at his ear for a moment and trying to suppress the bitter smile curling across his face—  
  
Had he broken Arthur so easily?  
  
His body was begging for attention, but if he’d completed his task—if Arthur had lost all his strength just from _that_ , then he would never have to return again. If Arthur would even refuse to kiss him—  
  
“Goodbye,” Alfred whispered into Arthur’s ear, and then before Arthur could react, Alfred spun around and flew from the house, as if his feet had not even touched the ground.  
  
He ran into the forest, to make his escape. Not that he expected Arthur would follow after him. If that had been all it took for Arthur to break, then Alfred truly was flying—triumphant, victorious. It hadn’t been that degrading, hadn’t been that hard.  
  
He pressed his back up against a tree to catch his breath, his thoughts humming a mile a minute. His cock was still hard, pressing against his trousers. Alfred closed his eyes, pressed a hand to his chest, and then slowly ran it down. He tried to resist, but couldn’t—the pleasure was too great. His hand shoved into his trousers and he fisted his cock, pumping his hand up and down furiously. It was enjoyable—no wonder Arthur had lost control with only Alfred’s mouth—  
  
Alfred wondered what it’d feel like to have Arthur’s mouth around his cock—  
  
He shouldn’t think of such things, it was meant to disgust him. But it didn’t. Instead, he felt a spike of pleasure and no matter how hard he tried to resist the image, all he could see was Arthur on his knees in front of him, sucking Alfred’s cock into his mouth and being able to take all of him, until the cockhead teased at Arthur’s throat.  
  
Alfred came long and hard into his hand, his seed spilling over his fingertips and his body shuddering and shivering. Alfred bit his lip to keep from saying anything, and his body jerked and writhed against his hand.  
  
Once he came down from the pleasure, he stared down at his hand, his expression darkening. He knelt down and rubbed his hand against the grass, to clean his hand off.  
  
“It’s natural,” he whispered, “it’s not that I want him. If you do something like that, your body’s bound to react. No matter how you feel about that person.”  
  
Satisfied with that excuse, Alfred ran more, back towards his own camp, away from Arthur, away from this strategy—he’d been victorious.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
“I did it!” Alfred announced as he threw the flap of the tent open and saw Gilbert, Antonio, and Francis sitting around and playing some kind of card game. The three men looked up as Alfred bounded into the tent and sat down between Antonio and Gilbert, shoving his elbow into Antonio a little in order to make room for himself.  
  
“So soon?” Francis asked, not looking up from his hand of cards.  
  
“Yeah,” Alfred said, and as the words caught up with him, he blushed furiously. “It wasn’t that bad, I guess.”  
  
“If you’re all going to start talking about this, I’m leaving,” Gilbert announced.  
  
“You will do no such thing,” Francis drawled with an airy little smile. “You are winning, after all.”  
  
Gilbert’s face screwed up into annoyance—and he indeed seemed torn between staying and winning more at the card game, or listening to Alfred talk about cock and Arthur in the same sentence. Eventually his greed ruled out over his annoyance at such war strategies and he threw a couple cards down.  
  
Antonio, cheerful as ever, smiled at Alfred. “That was quick.”  
  
“Yeah, well,” Alfred said, blushing. “Now it’s over and I don’t have to think about it.”  
  
“It truly only took you lying with our dear _Angleterre_ once before he was broken? Tsk,” Francis scoffed, “I hardly believe it.”  
  
“But it’s me,” Alfred said, “He’s bound to be really sentimental and easily broken by stuff like that, right?”  
  
“What exactly did he do that made you so sure he was broken?” Francis asked.  
  
Gilbert muttered something about _the proper way to break someone is to cut them in half._  
  
Alfred said, feeling himself grin in his triumph, “He wouldn’t kiss me afterwards.”  
  
Much to his chagrin, however, both Antonio and Francis burst into laughter. Francis threw down a couple of cards, ignored Gilbert’s curse, and said, “ _Mon cher_ , that means nothing.”  
  
“Huh?” Alfred asked.  
  
“Arthur wouldn’t deign to kiss anyone he’s using,” Antonio said, and then rubbed self-consciously at his wrists, as if remembering them being shackled. He didn’t notice the way Gilbert was craning his neck so he could see Antonio’s cards. Antonio continued, “No, that does not mean anything.”  
  
“But…”  
  
“Trust us,” Francis said, and also peeked over to see Antonio’s cards once he saw Gilbert doing it. “We have dealt with Arthur much more than you have, in these… contexts.” He laughed, as if this was some great joke, and Antonio muttered something in Spanish as Gilbert rolled his eyes. Francis ignored the other two, and kept his gaze on Alfred. “He could very well be using you in turn, Alfred. You must be careful.”  
  
“But…” Alfred repeated.  
  
“The way to know that Arthur can be broken,” Antonio said, quietly, “is when he lets himself be vulnerable to you. Only then.”  
  
“Vulnerable?” Alfred parroted.  
  
Antonio nodded. “You’ll know it, when you see it. Only then can you do what you set out to do.”  
  
“Tread wisely,” Francis warned, and collected the discarded cards on the table and began to shuffle them, smiling pleasantly. “Arthur is not easily broken. He is astute—he could very well be trying to break you in turn.”  
  
“No way that can happen,” Alfred scoffed. “He’s the emotional old fool. I’m just using him.”  
  
Antonio once again muttered something in Spanish that Alfred did not catch.  
  
Francis only smiled, perhaps a little sad. “We shall see.”


	2. Cracks of Primal Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You must do what you must,” Arthur murmured. “And I shall do the same.”

Alfred stayed away for days, mulling over what Francis and Antonio had told him.   
  
He didn’t allow his mind to linger too long on Arthur, fearing what would be dug up if he focused too long. He was much more content to tell himself that he hated Arthur and this was a necessary evil to get what he wanted. He couldn’t allow himself to feel remorse for manipulating Arthur—he had to tell himself that, given the chance, Arthur would manipulate him right back, and was probably attempting to do so at that very moment.   
  
So he spent the days training with Gilbert to keep his mind off everything, and ignored the knowing smirks from Francis and the sympathetic glances from Antonio. Silently, Alfred had to agree with Gilbert—hand-to-hand fighting was much more preferable than this attempted breaking and manipulation. It was much simpler to just meet Arthur on the battlefield, shoot at him, and break his ties that way. Coming close to Arthur only to pull away was just counterproductive and needlessly complicated. There was something satisfying and reassuring about fighting through physical means.   
  
“You’re honestly planning on going back there?” Gilbert asked one day as he inspected Alfred’s shooting.   
  
Alfred looked up from where he was carefully cleaning his musket—something he hadn’t learned to do properly until Gilbert whipped him and his men into shape. “Huh?”  
  
“To that empire,” Gilbert clarified, eyes unreadable as he turned and pointed towards Alfred’s gun. His voice came out gruff, disapproving. “You missed that spot.”  
  
Alfred cleaned it carefully, keeping his eyes down. “I know you don’t think I should.”  
  
“I don’t give a fuck what you do,” Gilbert insisted with a snort. He crossed his arms, and looked the part of indifference. “Those two will tell you anything they can if they think it’ll give them a leg up. They don’t care about the integrity and dignity of war. It’s not the proper way to do things—especially since it’s you two.”   
  
Alfred frowned and looked up at Gilbert. “What do you mean?”  
  
Gilbert rolled his eyes as if it were perfectly obvious. “Alfred. I am only going to say this once on the matter.”  
  
“All right,” Alfred said, slowly.  
  
“There is a difference between keeping the enemy close,” Gilbert said, frowning, “and just plain _sleeping_ with the enemy.”   
  
Alfred’s eyes widened and he gaped up at Gilbert. Gilbert frowned at him further, the lines in his face deepening with every passing moment. He looked uncomfortable. Alfred felt uncomfortable. Alfred felt his face flare up, a bright, incriminating red, and he looked away.   
  
“I’m doing this so I can break him.”  
  
“It’d be more honorable to break him in the battlefield,” Gilbert muttered, more to himself than to Alfred. “For both involved. This kind of shit is just messy and unnecessary.”   
  
“But I need to win this.”   
  
“So win on our own merits, not on backhanded tricks from the _French._ ”   
  
Alfred’s frown deepened, and his hold on his gun tightened. “But, I—”  
  
Bu the didn’t know what to say. He closed his mouth with a snap. They sat in a long, awkward silence.   
  
Gilbert wrinkled his nose, and pointed towards Alfred’s gun, clearly seizing an opportunity to stop talking about the subject at hand:  
  
“You keep missing that spot!”   
  
  
\---  
  
  
It took a few days after that before Alfred resolved to return to Arthur. It took a few more coaching sessions from Francis and reassurances of the immediate success of such a plan. He hesitated. He debated. Something pressed against the back of his throat, and he struggled to listen to the gut feeling or to keep moving forward. He didn’t want to.  
  
But he went there.   
  
Slowly—he walked slowly, approaching the home and hesitating. When he knocked, there was no immediate answer so Alfred cracked the door open.  
  
“Arthur?” he called out.   
  
He heard movement in the next room, and Alfred swallowed thickly. So Arthur would not come to greet him. Steadying his nerves and suppressing what he determined had to be revulsion that was welling up in his belly, Alfred went back to that place—the back room. Arthur did not rise to meet him. Undoubtedly he knew who it was but he only shifted his head, glancing at him over his shoulder before looking away, eyes down. Their eyes locked for half a moment before then, however, and in that soft acknowledgement of one another, Alfred felt himself shiver and stop walking.   
  
“Arthur?” Alfred asked, feeling too heavy. He swallowed thickly, steadying his resolve once again and taking a step closer.   
  
“You returned,” Arthur said softly, and Alfred wasn’t sure how, exactly, to read such an exhalation. He stopped in his approach. He inhaled and exhaled once and then smoothed his hands over his clothes, straightening himself out. He patted down his hair, trying to tame the wild flip of Nantucket.   
  
“I did,” Alfred agreed after a pause, taking another step towards him. He calculated the possible way to approach it again, and decided that being blunt and clear about what he’d come for was the best route: “I want you again.”  
  
He watched Arthur stiffen up, and waited to hear something—anything—from him. But nothing came.   
  
Arthur remained with his back straight before he then hunched over, cupping his hands over his face. Alfred stood in surprise, not expecting such a reaction. He stood there for a long moment, unsure what to make of such a reaction.   
  
“Arthur?” Alfred asked, quietly, hoping he sounded concerned and hoping the quivering in his chest was because of his disgust with this old, foolish man.   
  
Arthur did not respond. Alfred fisted and uncurled his fists a few times, trying to work out the tension in his shoulders and discern some meaning from it all. He told himself the bubbling in his chest was because of revulsion, for the desire to leave as quickly as possible.   
  
Revulsion.  
  
It was all revulsion.  
  
If he repeated it over and over, it had to be true.  
  
“Good god,” Arthur murmured.   
  
Alfred frowned. “What is it?”   
  
Arthur did not respond.   
  
Alfred sighed. “I’ve come here because I want you to take me again. But this time…” he dared not choke on his words. “This time, I want you to really take me, Arthur. I want you to—”  
  
His flurry of hurried, rehearsed words were broken off by Arthur’s quiet moan, “Good god, what have I done?”  
  
“What—”   
  
Arthur continued as if he hadn’t heart Alfred: “You are my _brother._ ”  
  
Alfred stayed silent for a moment, and then walked, slowly, creating a perimeter around Arthur. Once he was directly in front of Arthur, he walked closer to him, kneeling slightly before him, reaching up his hands and touching Arthur’s wrists. Arthur did not draw away, but he did not relax, either. Alfred frowned to himself, before forcing his face into passive neutrality.   
  
“You have only done what was right,” Alfred said, bit at his tongue. The words pressing against his throat were quickly swallowed back down.   
  
“It is not,” Arthur snapped and finally dropped his hands away from his face to stare into Alfred’s eyes. Alfred was so disarmed by the movement that he recoiled just a little, eyes widening in surprise. Arthur stared at him for a long moment, looking into Alfred’s eyes. He did not attempt to draw his hands away, and Alfred did not release his wrists.   
  
“It is,” Alfred insisted, pressing in closer as if to capture Arthur’s lips. Arthur turned his face away.  
  
“You know very well what our people would think, should they know,” Arthur muttered. “You know very well that it is wrong.”   
  
Alfred felt the words plunge into his stomach and send an icy wave through his veins. He stayed still, inhaling slowly, his chest swelling. He ignored all the words that pressed their way to the surface. Slowly, Alfred shook his head.   
  
“Perhaps. But it does not matter. What we’ve done is beyond human scope. It had a consecration all its own.”   
  
“Hush, boy,” Arthur muttered, clenching his eyes shut. He ducked his head, letting his hair fall into his face.   
  
Alfred regarded Arthur’s face, freely once Arthur’s eyes shut. He stared at his posture, his slumped shoulders, his slackened expression. He could not determine if it was true remorse on Arthur’s face, but something in his gut told him that, yes, it was. His _brother_ —if Alfred could even deign to call him that in his own mind and not for purposes of manipulation—was disgusted with what they’d done.   
  
“You did nothing,” Alfred reminded. “It wasn’t you. I’m the one who—”  
  
“Precisely. I did nothing. I should have stopped this,” Arthur muttered, and snapped his eyes open again, looking angrier. “You should not be here. We are fighting a war. Release me. Release me from whatever it is you intend to do.”  
  
Alarmed by the words, Alfred leaned in closer. Arthur tried to tug his hands away, but Alfred would not allow him to. He looked upon Arthur’s face, and leaned in, catching his lips in a kiss. Arthur froze up but did not pull away again, and Alfred once again silently damned the poor, sentimental fool. He felt Arthur press back and knew that he had won. He deepened the kiss, releasing one of Arthur’s wrists to cradle his head, pulling him closer and kissing him, laying waste to his morality.   
  
“Touch me,” Alfred mumbled against his lips as he pulled away.   
  
Arthur snorted, looking miserable, and Alfred’s opinion of Arthur changed yet again from bad to much worse. Not only was a he a sad, sentimental fool who would sleep with someone like Alfred, but he was being all moody about it, too. Arthur’s company was not good and anyone would have been better. He could have stayed behind with Francis, asked Francis and Antonio to show him a thing or two—that’d be much more fun. Of course, he wasn’t sure how he felt about Francis and Antonio touching him so much, and touching him like the way Arthur was touching him now. But still, it’d be better than the way Arthur was touching him now—as if he was fragile and made of glass. Why was he being so hesitant to touch Alfred? Was Alfred not _good enough_ for him now?   
  
“You do want me,” Alfred insisted, quietly. “Or should I act more subdued? Should I beg you?”  
  
“You are not subdued, nor do you beg,” Arthur said quietly, not opening his eyes. He sighed. “That would not be you.”   
  
Alfred stayed silent. He couldn’t tell if it was praise in Arthur’s voice or not, and was not sure if the absence or presence of pride would make Alfred himself happy or not.   
  
“But if those are the things you do not desire in me…”  
  
“Silence,” Arthur commanded.   
  
Alfred, naturally, disobeyed: “You want me.”  
  
He unclenched his fingers around Arthur, slightly, and dragged them along the cuts of Arthur’s body, feeling his shivering body underneath the layers of uniform. Arthur did not respond right away, save for the slight shudder of his shoulders, the furrow of his brows.   
  
Alfred leaned in closer, whispering, “Just answer, yes or no. Do you want me? Do you want me to leave you alone, to your own loneliness? Do you want me to disappear forever?”   
  
Alfred willed for his visible grip on Arthur to disappear, willed himself to _let go._ But he couldn’t, and he knew he couldn’t.   
  
Arthur didn’t respond.  
  
Alfred was insistent. “Do you want me, Arthur?”   
  
Arthur breathed in, shifting his gaze and staring at the hands that gripped him so tightly and refused to let go. Then, slowly, Arthur rose up. Alfred rose with him, blinking. Arthur studied his face for a long moment, expression unreadable. His fingers stroked at Alfred’s face, and Alfred allowed this, biting at his tongue to keep from saying something—anything.   
  
Slowly, Arthur shifted his hands and clasped Alfred on the shoulders. It was the most Arthur had touched him in a long time, without prompting from Alfred. It was understandable, as they’d spent so much time fighting one another. Alfred had certainly touched Arthur. But Arthur stroking his face, and now holding onto his shoulders as if afraid Alfred would drift away left Alfred feeling like he really _was_ drifting. His heart stopped, for half a moment, and then restarted with a small stab deep in his gut.   
  
He knew what he had to do, but it was moments like these that Alfred remembered, vividly and painfully, their past years together. And while it gave him that brief moment of regret, of sympathy, it only solidified his resolve—he would never have those years again, because Arthur was a tyrannical holder of his people, and refused to see him as an equal. So he would take that equality for himself.   
  
“Arthur?” Alfred prompted in a whisper.   
  
“Yes,” Arthur said, equally as quiet—and Alfred realized he was answering his question. He could see it in the way Arthur’s expression shifted, and his eyes had to flicker away. “Of course I do.”   
  
Alfred tried to restrain the crazy twitching of his fingers, and he dropped his hands away, letting them lie still, as still as he could, at his sides. He smiled, slowly.  
  
“Then take me,” Alfred said, smiling. “In the only way I’ll allow you to.”   
  
Arthur stared at him, expression evening out. His green eyes stared at him, seemed to stare right past him. Alfred hated it, had always hated it, when Arthur looked at him like that. It was always as if he was there, lying bare for Arthur to see everything and anything Alfred had to show—whether voluntary or not.   
  
“Good God, what am I doing?” Arthur said, quietly, and then leaned up and kissed Alfred on the mouth.   
  
Alfred curled his hands around the front of Arthur’s heavy wool jacket, ran his fingers over the meticulously designed trim, pulled him close and felt the scratch of the wool and the chap of his lips, kissed him passionately and not caring that he’d stolen all breath and was lost, drifting—  
  
Falling.   
  
Falling against him, falling against everything he’d always thought he’d never do, never dreamed would be done. He kissed him as harshly as he could, seized his mouth against his own, kissed him in the way he knew he should, the way that would ensure that Arthur would never misunderstand him or, worse, unveil the true intentions beneath the surface.   
  
When he pulled away, he could see his reflection in Arthur’s eyes. Arthur stared at him, eyes slightly petrified. After the initial press of mouth to Alfred’s, Arthur hadn’t responded. Alfred dragged his hands up his sides and cupped Arthur’s face.  
  
“Arthur,” he said.   
  
The said man curled his fingers around Alfred’s shoulders, smoothed over the fabric of his own coat, and leaned in, slowly, so that their shoulders touched just a bit. He curled his arms around Alfred, holding him close.   
  
Alfred stared at the wall, feeling his mouth open and close and unsure which to settle with. He ended up somewhere in between, his breath leaving him in a disastrous little flutter.  
  
“Dear boy,” he heard Arthur murmur.   
  
Alfred squeezed his eyes shut, cursing Arthur for all he was worth, feeling his heart flutter against his ribcage. He wrapped his arms around Arthur in turn, holding him close.   
  
“What have I done?” he heard Arthur ask himself. “This is wrong.”   
  
“What’s wrong?” Alfred asked, staring out at the wall.  
  
Arthur held him tight, tethered his chest against Alfred’s, refused to pull away. Alfred made no move to pull away—for appearances, he reminded himself. For finding Arthur’s weakness. For making Arthur vulnerable. Even though Arthur held him tightly, Alfred could tell—it wasn’t the time. It couldn’t be. Francis was probably right—it couldn’t be so soon. Arthur had kissed him, a few times. Antonio had said that Arthur never kissed those he was using. Alfred wasn’t sure what that meant, in his case, then.   
  
Alfred pulled away a little, looking at Arthur’s profile when the other man turned his face away.   
  
“What’s ‘wrong’?” he asked again.   
  
Arthur sighed out. “This is not right. I’m… you’re my… You’re… damn. Damn it all.”   
  
He ducked his head. Alfred’s hand drifted up, curled around Arthur’s chin, and forced his face up again. Arthur frowned at him, his brow furrowed. Alfred met his gaze evenly, frowning as well. He felt his heart thundering in his chest, felt that if he didn’t keep his hands moving, or holding onto Arthur, they would start to shake.   
  
“You were just a boy,” Arthur murmured.  
  
“I learned,” Alfred insisted, stroking his thumb at Arthur’s bottom lip. “Damn damnation, Arthur. We are not accountable to human morality.”   
  
Arthur sighed out, his eyes flickering, darkening. Alfred took advantage of this hesitation, of this moment, and pulled his thumb away from Arthur’s mouth to replace it with his lips. He curled his fingers around the back of Arthur’s head and drew him closer, opening his mouth. After a long moment, he felt Arthur’s tongue slip into his mouth, meet him, his head tipped to the side a little.   
  
The air outside was thick, raining, darkening. In the dim lighting, Arthur pulled away again, his breath coming out in a shudder, his eyes bright in the dying light. Alfred frowned at him, and tried to capture Arthur’s mouth again. Arthur turned his face away again, and Alfred’s chin hit just below his ear. He let out a soft breath against that ear, let his lips brush along his jaw as he pulled away, searching again for Arthur’s mouth.   
  
Belatedly, he realized he searched too eagerly. He stopped.   
  
Arthur’s breathing was harsh like Alfred’s own. “You were just a boy.”  
  
“I’m not anymore. I’ve grown up. I’ve changed.” He tipped his chin a little, eyes searching Arthur’s own, but Arthur refused to meet his gaze. “You have made me so.”   
  
Arthur’s eyes fluttered shut and he parted his lips, breathing out. “You have no idea of what you speak.”   
  
“I don’t care.”  
  
“You should by all means care,” Arthur said, and his tone was harsh. He turned his face completely away from him, stepped away. His hands fell away from Alfred.  
  
Alfred, frowning, stepped forward to meet him again, to prevent him from escaping.   
  
“I don’t care.” He searched his mind, searching for what he had to say to keep Arthur there, to manipulate him, to tether him, to control him and gain his advantage. “I love you.”  
  
Arthur froze, and Alfred knew he’d chosen the right words. The three words hung heavy on his tongue, his shoulders slumping slightly as he spoke the words—the lie. It had to be a lie. He told himself it was a lie, reminded himself it was a lie.  
  
Arthur was not looking at him. “… You…”   
  
“I do,” Alfred affirmed, trying to sound as convincing as he could, trying to fool Arthur. Banking on fooling Arthur.   
  
Arthur was silent for a moment, and then murmured, “How you cloud my judgment.”   
  
He looked up at Alfred suddenly, and Alfred stiffened up, standing up straight. Arthur took a careful pace towards him, never tearing his eyes away from Alfred’s face. When he was close enough, he laid his fingers upon Alfred’s cheek, and dragged, slowly, down, under his chin, and back up his other cheek. Alfred didn’t dare move, hardly dared to breathe.   
  
“You have learned,” Arthur said, absently, cryptically.   
  
“Arthur?” Alfred asked, hushed.   
  
Arthur frowned at him, and for a moment his nails dug into Alfred’s cheek. And then he ducked his head, stepping closer, hands smoothing over the heavy, scratchy wool of Alfred’s jacket.   
  
“And you, boy? Do you want me?” Arthur asked.  
  
Alfred swallowed, unable to voice the simple yes. Instead, he said, “Isn’t the answer obvious?”  
  
“Yes,” Arthur murmured. “I daresay you are quite obvious.”   
  
Something thrummed in Alfred’s chest as Arthur thumbed open one of the buttons of Alfred’s coat.   
  
“But we shall play it your way, if this is your decision,” Arthur murmured.   
  
Alfred looked at him in confusion, but any questions he was about to voice were forgotten when Arthur dragged him down again, kissing him, his hot breath and his tongue stroking into Alfred’s mouth. Alfred closed his eyes and opened his mouth to him, settling into Arthur, lifting his hands and gripping the tops of Arthur’s arms. Alfred responded to him, mimicking him, stroking his tongue into Arthur’s mouth in turn, keeping his ministrations as gentle as he could.   
  
He ignored the way his heart thundered.   
  
Though the kiss remained gentle at first, it seemed as if something snapped in Arthur, and he became more forceful. Arthur shoved against him and Alfred stumbled back a step and felt his back press up against the wall. Arthur was there to meet him, mouth against Alfred’s. Alfred leaned against the wall, since it was there—since it could give him a moment of support. Alfred found himself sandwiched between the wall and Arthur, and Alfred felt every inch of his body shift and pulse beneath Arthur, felt acutely every touch of skin. Arthur shifted closer, pressed a leg between Alfred’s, and Alfred tightened his legs around it, unsure what to do, needing an inch of support from the wall and feeling as if he were falling without knowing his destination. But Arthur did not leave him to these moments of insecurity, of reflection, of uncertainty—he drew from Alfred hot breaths, the quick shudder of his whisping air.   
  
Alfred rubbed against Arthur, trying to garner some reaction from him. Arthur’s hold on his cheeks tightened, nails digging half-moon marks into his flushed cheeks. Alfred squirmed, rolling his hips, feeling his lungs constrict and his breath hitch. Arthur was there to swallow all the tired excuses Alfred never managed to fully exhale. He would not give up easily, and it seemed Arthur was content to battle against Alfred, to test the extent of his resolve. But Alfred was determined to meet him in that course. He would not bow away, he would not step away. He would manipulate, he would destroy—that was his goal. That had to be his goal, and there would be nothing to stop him from that task—  
  
Arthur suckled Alfred’s bottom lip between his teeth and chewed thoughtfully. Alfred flickered his eyes open as Arthur pulled away and their eyes locked, fire on fire. Arthur took a deep breath, his eyes flickering as he surveyed Alfred’s face—and Alfred wasn’t quite sure what Arthur saw there.  
  
“Do you know what you’re doing, my boy?” he asked, quietly.   
  
Alfred’s initial response was to hiss out the quiet _I’m not your boy,_ but he wrestled it down into his gut, shoved it into the dark corners of his heart. Alfred blinked once, and then leaned forward, as a means to kiss Arthur and silence him, but Arthur turned his head just slightly, his lips brushing across Alfred’s jaw, feather-light—chasing a shadow. Alfred’s eyes flickered shut as Arthur did that, his nose brushing over his cheek, and the slight parting of his lips against his ear, a soft exhalation.   
  
“Do you?” he repeated.   
  
Alfred kept his eyes shut. Not content to lie, but far from speaking his entire truths, all he could do was swallow and murmur the quiet, true: “I know what I want.”   
  
Arthur was still for a moment, and then his hands were on him, almost angrily, tugging at Alfred’s clothes. He pulled at the buttons, shrugged the coat off Alfred’s shoulders and tossed it precariously to the floor. Arthur yanked Alfred’s shirt open, and Alfred was left star-struck, unable to breathe for half a moment at the force and speed that Arthur stripped him down. He shivered at the cool air, and saw Arthur’s frowning face for half a moment before Arthur was spinning him around and slamming him up against the wall.   
  
The wall felt cool against Alfred’s burning cheek, and he swallowed back the small gasp of surprise at the sudden forcefulness. Alfred felt Arthur press up against him, their bodies molding together, chest to back. Arthur paused, just staying there, before he finally wrapped his arms around Alfred, one hand on his swelling chest and the other across his stomach. Alfred shifted his head, resting his forehead against the wall and looking down at the hands pressed against his body. Alfred felt his heart racing, and swallowed thickly—unsure how to go about any of this.   
  
But it seemed that Arthur had seized control, and loathed as he was to keep it that way, Alfred resisted the urge to protest, resisted the urge to fight him and win back his control. With disdain curling into his throat, Alfred submitted his body to Arthur’s touches. With his back to Arthur, he didn’t have to disguise the glare at the wall. Warm hands stroked his breastbone and the curve of his muscles, touching at the sensitive skin of his sides and sliding down over his hips and back up again. Alfred shuddered.   
  
Arthur murmured something against the back of his neck, but Alfred didn’t pay attention fast enough to catch the words, and they drifted off into the otherwise silent room. His voice was hot against his sensitive skin, and Alfred felt another shiver curl down his spine and pool in the pit of his stomach, where it went molten. Alfred blew out a soft breath of air, and Arthur responded with his own reply, his lips pressing against the nape of his neck before drawing away. The hands dragged against his skin, leaving behind fired trails that left Alfred both chilled and warmed at once.   
  
When Alfred remembered to focus again, it was to the sight of Arthur’s hands tugging and loosening Alfred’s trousers, fisting at the knotted strands and thumbing at the loose buttons. Alfred closed his eyes, bit back any words he could think of, shunned the images of his people, of their reactions—most likely those of disgust. He did not want to think of his people in these moments.   
  
Alfred couldn’t muffle the quiet cry, however, when Arthur’s hand slid beneath his loosened trousers and grasped his cock, already swelling under Arthur’s ministrations—so easy to get such a reaction; Alfred felt he should be disgusted. But the way Arthur stroked him was warm and slow and enough to send him into moans, though he took great pains not to make a sound. His breathing came out a bit more ragged, his lips parted, his body feeling warm as Arthur pressed his hand up and down, feeling the contours of Alfred’s cock, weighing it in his hand and squeezing it until it plumped up between his fingertips.   
  
The strokes continued, slow and precise, thumb following the curve of his cock, curling over his girth and stroking, following the lines of the veins and twirling coyly around his cockhead. And with every passing moment, Alfred found it harder to maintain his control, to suppress the urge to cry out, throat parched. It was too dry, too cold in that room. He should escape while he still could, but he’d already come too far and damned as he was to admit it, but did it feel good. Maybe if he could pretend it was not Arthur—  
  
“Nngh,” he hissed out before he could stop himself, biting down on his lower lip so hard it nearly split. It was painful, but the touch of another’s hands on him was almost heavenly. He felt himself flush with the shame of making such an incriminating sound and he hissed out a quiet, “Damn it.”   
  
Arthur’s movements did not slow, though the touch did lessen—as if he were about to pull away. But, almost involuntarily, Alfred rolled his hips into Arthur’s hand, thrusting weakly and demanding the extra pressure. Arthur indulged him, squeezing him and pumping him in time with the shallow thrusts of Alfred’s hips.   
  
And before Alfred could properly focus on any of it, Arthur stepped away from him. Alfred swallowed the whine before it could fully form, and when he turned his head to look over his shoulder, Arthur was looking at him.  
  
“Don’t move,” he ordered, and then turned his face away—red cheeks, expression unreadable—and then walked away. Alfred stared after him, mouth flopped open in surprise.   
  
His body ran cold. He didn’t know what happened, what was happening, and _where was Arthur even going?_ but he couldn’t quite voice these protests, and just stared after Arthur in shock and dismay. His body quaked, and he told himself it was from disgust—at himself, but most especially at Arthur. He couldn’t allow himself to think about the morality about his decisions. He had done what he’d set out to do, and he would stick with his plan. If it meant his freedom, he would take it.   
  
His justifications and uncertainties evaporated, however, when Arthur presently returned, and their eyes locked again. Arthur was the one to look away this time, though, and murmured, “Turn around.”  
  
Alfred did as he was told, biting at his lower lip and staring at the wall, focusing all his emotions onto that one slab of unobtrusive wall. All his frustrations, all his hopes—this was what he had set for himself, and this is what he would do. Even if he thought it was wrong or right—it didn’t matter. What mattered was that it would help him reach his freedom. And that was the only thing now. That was the only thing he could possibly care about.  
  
Arthur’s hand touched his hip, slick with oil or with _something_. It dragged across his hip, pulling his trousers down and away. Alfred shifted, stepping out of them and kicking them aside, his face bright red. The hand dragged across his hip and into the crack of his ass. Alfred jumped a little, startled by the cool touch of slicked fingers. His heart thundered and pounded and he squeezed his eyes shut, not sure if he was excited or afraid or angry or perhaps all three. Whatever it was, he didn’t want to focus on it—he pushed the feelings down, repressed them and shoved them aside.   
  
Alfred felt Arthur’s fingers nudge inside of him, hook in and up. Alfred just managed to muffle the shuddering gasp, breath misting against the wall as he pressed his forehead against the wall, felt the cool touch while his body ignited, while he felt every curve and flutter of Arthur’s cool fingers.   
  
Arthur moved with precision, saying no words and just moving his fingers. They stretched and curled inside of Alfred, and Alfred just managed to swallow the shameful noises he felt bubbling in his gut. Arthur kicked at his feet, spreading Alfred’s legs. Alfred leaned forward, resting his hands against the wall, unsure what to do, feeling impossibly hard and hating himself for it. And yet he could not deny that the touch Arthur left in his wake left Alfred on fire, left him wanting more, needing more.   
  
Alfred cursed again, muffled, and Arthur’s ministrations paused. There was a terrifying moment when Alfred was sure it was all over, that Arthur understood now. But instead, Arthur just pressed closer, resting his forehead against Alfred’s back, his breath breezing over his spine in a shudder. Alfred stayed perfectly still, unsure what to make of such a moment, unsure how to react to Arthur not moving, just resting against him, feeling his breath and the way his eyelashes fluttered over his skin as Arthur blinked rapidly a few times.   
  
“Arthur?” Alfred asked, after a moment, trying to sound confident and hating himself, feeling the shift of shame in his gut, over the shakiness in his own voice. He tilted his head, looking over his shoulder just as Arthur seemed to gather himself and straightened, looking stone-faced and grimly determined.   
  
The other man did not respond, just looked away and set down the bottle of oil—whatever it was, Alfred couldn’t make out the label—and pushed his fingers deeper into Alfred.   
  
“Turn your head,” Arthur said, a little more gently than before. It almost sounded like a plea.   
  
Alfred didn’t respond, because he felt Arthur push up against him—warm and soft in the lines of his body, but the hardness of his cock pressing against his backside, his fingers hooked and rubbing at something inside Alfred that actually made Alfred’s knees go weak.   
  
They moved in silence after that, neither speaking, neither looking at the other. Alfred was acutely aware of every moment against his body. The feel of Arthur’s feet touching at Alfred’s, kicking them open again. The feel of Arthur’s body arched against Alfred’s. The feel of his fingers leaving Alfred’s body, replaced only with the hot, hard curve of his cock, pressing up and into his body with practiced ease and a smooth glide. The feel of Alfred’s lungs constricting, of the quietest hitch of his breath. The feel of Arthur’s hair against his shoulder, his lips brushing against a bump of his spine before he seemed to remember himself and pulled away, jerking his hips up with a snap.   
  
Arthur curled his fingers around Alfred’s hips, loose and distracting in his touch. Arthur pushed up further, until he had filled Alfred, until Arthur filled Alfred up to the root and it was full and present, but not necessarily unpleasant. Alfred shifted his hips, unused to the stretch and girth, unused to being this close—and yet feeling further away than ever. He clenched his eyes shut, his breath hitched and uneven. But he refused to cry out again, refused to moan or beg or plead. He would stay as silent as he could, would ignore the way his body writhed under his skin, twitched and sent every nerve ending on fire.   
  
Arthur rocked against him, back and forth, up and in, stretching and feeling his body. He didn’t say anything, either, save for a few exhalations against his shoulder blades that Alfred couldn’t quite hear. It hurt a little, after a while, to feel the snap of Arthur’s hips—but it wasn’t enough for Alfred to cry out, even if he was stuck in the line between it’s-not-that-unpleasant and this-hurts-this-is-too-painful. But the pain he felt lodged in his throat wasn’t a physical pain. But Alfred couldn’t stand to think of it as anything besides physical pain.   
  
Arthur’s breathing was harsher now, burning against his ear, dry lips brushing occasionally against the shell of his ear. Alfred swallowed thickly, his throat dry. It burned like nothing he’d ever felt before. His body shivered, sweaty and quivering. He could feel the way Arthur’s body, slick as well, shifted up against him. The molten knot in his gut wouldn’t loosen. It only seemed to raise in temperature, seemed to tighten. It was too strong, too much. And yet it was not nearly enough, and Alfred knew that he had set this course for himself—he had done this for himself, and he would have to complete it, no matter what, no matter how much he might regret his decisions. If it meant his freedom, he would take it.   
  
That’s what he had to keep telling himself. That was what he repeated in his head, continuously, as Arthur drilled into him, shifting and snapping his hips. It was for his freedom. It was for his freedom. It was for his freedom.   
  
He would break Arthur. He would take Arthur and his hands and crush him. And he would earn his freedom that way. He would have to hurt Arthur, he would _have to hurt Arthur._   
  
Arthur’s hands stroked at his belly. Alfred shifted his head, ducked his chin down and stared at the movement of the hands, slow and unsteady, sloppy and hesitant, almost. They stroked, following the lines of Alfred’s body, and one hand curled downward, fisting Alfred’s neglected cock and stroking. Arthur pounded into him, and his hand fell in time to the thrusts and the burning ache, stroking him in time with his thrusts.   
  
And before Alfred could think to stop it, the single name fell away from his mouth, shuddered out of his body as Arthur struck something deep inside him: “A… Arthur.”   
  
Arthur froze, for half a moment. Alfred felt his body blaze in his shame, but he did not say anything more, did not dare to take it back, either. Arthur stroked him harder, and it was all Alfred’s body could handle—the next moment, he was jerking his hips sloppily, spilling into Arthur’s hand and across his quivering stomach. He panted, his breath in ragged bursts, sweat clinging his hair to his forehead.   
  
Arthur did not remove his hand, and just held Alfred in his hand, even as Alfred’s cock began to soften under his touch, the warmth of his seed cooling between them. But Arthur had not reached his climax, and he continued to snap his hips up against Alfred. Alfred bit his lip, dug his teeth into his tongue almost hard enough to draw blood.   
  
“Shit,” Arthur murmured behind him.   
  
Alfred blinked his eyes in rapid fire a few times, trying to clear his vision, and whispered, “It’s alright, Arthur.”   
  
He wasn’t quite sure what he was reassuring—why he was reassuring. But the words fell out of him, and he let them hang in the air. His body went limp, and Arthur held onto him, held him up and held him steady, thrusting up shallowly into his body.   
  
It took a few more moments, a few more thrusts up, before Arthur stuttered to a sloppy halt, his body shoved up against Alfred, his cock shoved into Alfred. And then his breath was a soft hitch, and Alfred felt Arthur slump against him and his body fill with warmth.   
  
There was a long, silent moment, and Arthur wasn’t pulling away.  
  
“Are… you alright?” Alfred heard Arthur murmur, in a voice that sounded far too uncertain to fit the image of this empire Arthur had created over the last few years. He sounded far too unsure.   
  
Alfred sucked in a steadying breath and said, quite seriously, sounding more content than Alfred realized was possible, “I’m fine.”   
  
With a quiet sigh, Arthur heaved himself off Alfred. When Alfred turned around, Arthur was not looking at him, redoing up his clothing, working at the ties of his trousers and redoing the buttons of his shirt. He kept his eyes slanted away from Alfred’s naked body. And Alfred, unsure what to do, just stood there—feeling Arthur inside him, even when Arthur was further away from him than ever. He couldn’t know any of this—how to do this, what to do. He was inexperienced with these kinds of manipulations, and despite his assurance that he would do anything in his power to gain his independence, he couldn’t help but feel weaker than ever, more lost than ever before, as he watched Arthur stood down, pick up Alfred’s clothes, and throw them to him.   
  
“Leave,” Arthur murmured, still not looking to Alfred.  
  
Alfred felt something snap inside him, shift and break. He felt a bubble of anger in his gut, but he pulled his clothes on in silence.   
  
When he looked up again, Arthur was still there—he hadn’t moved. His body was red and his breath still hadn’t returned to normal. Alfred could only assume he looked the same way, and he felt too sore to move as fluidly as he was accustomed.   
  
“Arthur,” he said, quietly.   
  
“Get out,” Arthur said, voice quiet.   
  
Alfred took a step towards him, but Arthur just shook his head, and took a step away. “No,” he said quietly, more to himself than to Alfred. And then he finally did look up, staring at Alfred, his expression unreadable to Alfred. “You’ve made your decisions, boy. But I…”  
  
He paused, looking overcome with some kind of frustration. He shook his head, slowly, and turned his back to Alfred.  
  
“Leave here.”  
  
“Arthur—” Alfred began, unsure what was happening but taking another step forward. But the words chocked, and he said nothing at all.   
  
Arthur’s shoulders tensed up and he sighed, slowly. Alfred watched the tension and the frustrations weave into Arthur’s shoulders and neck, tightening him up.   
  
Alfred’s body ached.  
  
“You must do what you must,” Arthur murmured. “And I shall do the same.” He looked up, suddenly, sharply, staring at Alfred over his shoulder. He held Alfred’s gaze for a long moment before walking away, saying, slowly and clearly, “Get out.”


	3. Every Hum and Echo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things begin to crackle and break. That sense of certainty Alfred felt before starts to decompose.

Alfred returned the next evening, as the sun was sinking, hugging low across the horizon.   
  
He waited outside the house for a long while, staring at it. His mind couldn’t settle, hadn’t settled since the day before when he’d left the house so quickly. His body still ached, but it was a duller ache—something he couldn’t feel, unless he focused on it. And he didn’t want to focus on it. His mind was heavy with Arthur’s words from before, unsure what to make of Arthur’s behavior—was it acceptance or was Arthur just moving further and further away from him?   
  
He hadn’t asked Francis about it, unsure if he wanted the answer or not. Was he going to be able to break Arthur successfully, or would Alfred just grow fatigued with it all? He was not used to these things, and even if it was against his tyrant, a man he had sworn to hate—his mind was still heavy, and Alfred hated to think he _was_ starting to feel guilty. He couldn’t afford to be guilty. He couldn’t afford to care.   
  
When he did finally summon the urge to walk into the house, he was only half-surprised to see Arthur standing there, waiting for him, arms tucked behind his back, dressed properly and expression painfully neutral. Their eyes met and Alfred stilled in his approach. No words passed between them for those first short moments. They simply looked at one another. But after a moment, finally, Arthur’s gaze shifted away from Alfred, and stayed away.   
  
“I saw you approaching,” Arthur said, as way of explanation for his presence in the front hall. He sounded almost exhausted, or, perhaps, as if he had decided on something. His eyes didn’t quite catch Alfred’s gaze, but there were a few moments when their eyes passed over one another’s.  
  
“I didn’t realize you were waiting for me,” Alfred replied, stepping further into the house, walking towards Arthur finally—finally regaining the movement in his legs, the desire to move forward, no matter the cost. His movements were slow, cautious. He wasn’t quite sure what to expect now, after Arthur’s dismissal the day before, seemingly counter to his acceptance of Alfred’s presence now.  
  
“I’d wondered if you’d come back after all,” Arthur said absently, and Alfred wasn’t sure how to read the tone of his voice, or the way Arthur turned and walked away from the front hall and further back into the house. Alfred followed him. Arthur did not object to this, so Alfred cautiously began to believe that perhaps he was still, somehow, welcomed there.   
  
When they were further into the house, in a darker part of the room, with the curtains drawn over the windows to block the bitter sun, Arthur fixed his gaze upon Alfred and held him, frozen, in place. Alfred froze abruptly, feeling ice cold all of a sudden. Arthur just watched him, coolly, his gaze never wavering or flickering in that short moment.   
  
“Why are you here?” Arthur demanded, suddenly.   
  
Alfred swallowed, just once, and ordered up all the nonchalance he could muster. He squared his jaw and rolled his shoulders back, standing up a bit straighter than before. “I’ve answered this question, before.”   
  
Arthur grunted, and stepped forward, approaching Alfred, watching him carefully—so Alfred took careful pains not to tense up, not to back away, not to give into that immediate reaction to rise and fight, to fight and win.   
  
A cricket began to chirp outside, a slow, painful song. Mournful.   
  
“You have no business here,” Arthur said. “If you were sensible, you would stay away from here, would you not? Won’t your own men start to question why you continually flock to me?”   
  
“I’ve said it before,” Alfred said. “Just because we’re fighting doesn’t mean that I don’t want to see you.” He added, quietly, unable to keep the slight grit from his voice, “I do not flock to you.”   
  
“Just because you’re fighting me by any means necessary, you mean,” Arthur replied, words deceptively light even as the meaning behind it weighed down the air between them—made it hard to breathe. “If you were wise, my dear boy, you would make the lines between _enemies_ clear.”   
  
It was strange, still, to be in this situation. To willingly walk into the lion’s den. And yet, this Arthur was not the one he’d grown accustomed to the last few years. This Arthur did not dismiss him, did not belittle him and his ideas, did not fight him stubbornly demanding Alfred’s obedience. This Arthur was reasonable, if not a bit wary and suspicious. This Arthur, despite his claims of disgust towards defiling Alfred, still did so—and still let him return again and again.   
  
“Just… because we’re enemies in war,” Alfred said, slowly, “doesn’t mean we have to be enemies in all things.”  
  
Arthur did not immediately respond, and then he looked away, towards the candles on the table. Alfred followed his gaze, for half a moment, but saw nothing out of the ordinary—the plates he used for dinner, the abandoned bottle of rum, its glass container flickering in the dim candlelight. The sun was almost completely gone now, and it sent a red glow through the windows as it sank behind the trees and mountains in the distance.   
  
“Doesn’t it, though?” Arthur murmured, eyes hooded before he sighed. He shook his head and straightened, his expression a painful neutrality. When Alfred didn’t answer right away, Arthur sighed, and said, equally as quiet as before: “Why are you here?”   
  
Alfred took another step towards him, felt the time count down with each step he took. He forgot to breathe as he moved through the room toward Arthur. Arthur did not back away. He merely tipped his head back to stare at him, brow furrowed for half a moment before he remembered to move back into the neutral, dismissive expression of his.   
  
“You know why,” Alfred protested, and hated how his voice sounded weak again. _Don’t make me say it again. Don’t make me lie to you again._   
  
When he spoke, his voice sounded a bit strained, broken, as if he’d cut off a laugh before he could properly laugh. “Because you _want me_ , wasn’t it?”   
  
Alfred couldn’t answer, so he only nodded. His mouth was dry, his expression frozen. He hoped not one of horror, but he couldn’t be sure. He could never be sure.   
  
Arthur lowered his eyes for a moment, and took in a steadying breath. Then he turned, grabbed the candlestick from the table and walked away towards the staircase. When Alfred didn’t follow right away, unsure if he should, Arthur paused at the base of the stairs and stared out after him.   
  
“Come here,” he commanded, his voice petering out at the end into a breathless whisper.   
  
Alfred moved without a word, following Arthur, letting Arthur draw him up the stairs. Neither of them would have needed the candle—both could have navigated the contours of the house in the dark, and Alfred followed Arthur to the bedroom. There were candles lit in there, too, and Alfred briefly wondered if Arthur had planned on Alfred arriving at sundown in the first place. Alfred swallowed a steadying breath and felt his body run cold as Arthur’s hand touched his arm, and drew him into the bedroom.   
  
He shut the door behind him.   
  
Arthur’s face was cast in shadows lit by the candlelight in his hand, and his green eyes flickered in the dim, orange light. Alfred stayed still, unsure how to respond, unsure what to do. He would never be prepared for this. He never thought he’d have to be, really.   
  
Alfred closed his eyes.   
  
“I was sure you wouldn’t come back,” Arthur said, absently.   
  
Alfred didn’t open his eyes, but felt his lips touch into an unsure smile. “You did?”  
  
“Hm,” Arthur murmured, and Alfred heard him walk away. When Alfred opened his eyes again, Arthur was across the room, setting the candle down on the bureau and drawing the curtains. Arthur moved slowly, with precision, but with a hesitancy he wasn’t used to seeing in his shoulders, seeing in the slope of his neck or the tension in his jaw line.   
  
Alfred swallowed again, and then followed Arthur, slinking up to his side and touching his shoulder. Arthur didn’t immediately react, just focused on moving the curtains, his expression hidden by the shadows.  
  
“Hey,” Alfred said, quietly, “It’s okay, right? I’m here now. I came back.”   
  
Arthur sighed, long, slow, and languid. Then he nodded his head. “I have accepted it.”   
  
His words were soft, distant. Almost sad. But Alfred didn’t want to think that his voice could be sad, that Arthur himself could be sad—not yet. He wasn’t supposed to break down yet. But soon, perhaps.   
  
Soon…  
  
“So take me,” Alfred said, softly.   
  
Arthur studied his face, and then sighed. His hands lifted, fisting in the front of Alfred’s clothes, stripping it away bit by bit. His thumbs pushed away the heavy buttons, curled over the thick wool of his coat. It slipped off his shoulders and to the ground, and Arthur’s fingers found the buttons of his shirt, undoing it bit by bit. Alfred swallowed thickly, lips parting just slightly as Arthur worked.   
  
“Arthur—”  
  
“Shush,” Arthur said quietly, eyes downcast. He fiddled with Alfred’s shirt and, eventually, slipped it off as well. Bare-chested, Alfred bit at his lower lip and watched as Arthur took a step back, surveying him. His hands lingered on Alfred’s arms. “You have grown,” Arthur said, absently, as if mystified by this reality. “You’ve grown…”  
  
“Yeah,” Alfred said. “I’m getting stronger.”  
  
The shadow of a smile touched Arthur’s lips and he nodded, slowly. “Yes. I dare say you are.”   
  
He stepped forward again, hand on his arm falling away to cup him through his trousers. Alfred’s mouth fell open in a quiet _oh._  
  
“In what other ways have you grown?” Arthur asked, shifting his hand to pull at the ties and knots of Alfred’s trousers, and then slipping beneath the fabric, cupping Alfred’s cock, shamefully already half-hard. Alfred closed his eyes as Arthur stroked his hand over the length of his cock, from root to tip. He held him tenderly, slowly, watching Alfred’s reactions.   
  
Alfred found he couldn’t speak, so he let Arthur do as he pleased, swallowing thickly around the cotton-dryness of his throat. Alfred remembered himself, however, and lifted his own hands, groping at Arthur’s clothes with less fluidity and grace, tugging at the buttons and knots until Arthur’s clothes came undone.   
  
Arthur stepped back again, stripping his coat and draping it over the back of a chair. He stooped, collecting Alfred’s clothes, lying them out across the seat of the chair. He kept his back to Alfred, and Alfred just wanted him to come back—the strain of his trousers told him how much he wanted Arthur to come back. How much he hated the distance between them—  
  
And Arthur returned, sliding up to him, narrowing the distance. His fingers curled around the waistband of Alfred’s trousers and pulled down, letting it fall across the slump of his hips. His cock free, Arthur fisted it in his hand and stroked it. Alfred’s eyelids fluttered as he slammed them shut again, mouth open in a quiet gasp.   
  
“Arthur—”  
  
“Shhh,” England instructed, and pressed forward, pushing Alfred onto his back, sprawled out across the bed. Alfred blinked owlishly up at him, surprised but not repugnant, as Arthur crawled up over him, stripping Alfred of his trousers and leaving him naked and flushed against the extravagant fabric of Arthur’s deep crimson blanket.   
  
And Arthur kissed him, slowly, mouth against mouth. Their lips dovetailed together and Alfred, helpless, moaned very softly, eyes shut. He pressed up, traced the line of Arthur’s mouth as Arthur opened to him and met his tongue with his own. They kissed, lightly, the slightest touches for the longest moment. Arthur’s tongue lathed at the plump of Alfred’s bottom lip, dipped into his mouth, traced every line, and pulled away to bite, not unkindly, on his mouth. Alfred left his mouth open to Arthur, unable to muffle the quietest of moans.   
  
He felt Arthur stretch, felt Arthur pull away, just slightly. And Alfred blinked his eyes open long enough to see Arthur seize the small bottle of oil resting on the table, beside the flickering candlelight. Alfred sucked in a sharp breath, feeling the muscles of his stomach contract under the soft stroke of Arthur’s hand as it drifted away from his hard cock. Arthur sat back, resting on his knees, straddling Alfred’s legs. He popped the cork of the little bottle, pooling a liberal amount along his bent fingertips. Alfred watched him.   
  
Their eyes locked. Arthur must have seen—something—on Alfred’s face, because his expression softened, for half a moment. “It’s alright, lad.”  
  
Alfred nodded mutely, and tilted his head back to stare up at the ceiling. He thought. He tried not to linger on one thought or another, but his thoughts all ran back to Arthur. Arthur shifted, spreading Alfred’s legs, and Alfred shifted his legs up, draping them across Arthur’s shoulders and leaning back, spreading himself open for Arthur as Arthur pressed forward, dipping one finger and then two fingers into him, spreading him, filling him—making him feel whole.  
  
Alfred made a soft noise, not quite a whimper but something similar. He stared up at the ceiling and continued to think, even as he felt Arthur’s fingers bend into him, hooking and rubbing at him, sliding into him up the his knotted knuckles. Alfred made another soft noise, and as if in apology, Arthur stroked his hand along Alfred’s quivering thigh.   
  
“Arthur, what are yo—aah,” Alfred whispered.  
  
“Don’t tell me you don’t know what I’m doing,” Arthur responded, sliding a third finger in and already Alfred felt impossibly full. His legs tensed against Arthur’s shoulders, and Arthur tilted his head, pressing a kiss to his knee. And it was strangely intimate, with someone who still seemed far too distant, and Alfred had to remind himself it was Arthur he was meant to break. It was Arthur. Alfred, therefore, could not afford to feel these moments of sympathy or insight. No. Not Alfred.   
  
“I know,” Alfred choked out as Arthur’s fingers began a steady rhythm inside him, pumping in and out, striking at something deep inside him that caused a spike of pleasure to twist its way through his gut, coiling into the bottom of his stomach and staying there, infinitely pleasurable but promising somehow more than infinity.   
  
He panted, slowly, blinking up at the ceiling as if he’d never seen it before. Arthur’s fingers pulled him open and he felt Arthur’s cock nudge up against him, rubbing against his feverish skin and shuddering muscles. Alfred nodded, once, still looking at the ceiling, and Arthur pushed closer so that Arthur took up Alfred’s view, so it was Arthur he saw instead of the ceiling. Alfred felt Arthur’s cock nudge into him, push in to join the fingers, even as the fingers slid out and away. For one brief moment he felt impossibly full, with cock and fingers pushed inside of him—Arthur inside of him—but then Arthur shuddered and snapped his hips up, and slid his cock up to the hilt inside of Alfred. And Alfred was completely full of Arthur and only Arthur.   
  
“Oh,” Alfred said quietly, as if taken by surprise. Despite knowing this—despite knowing only Arthur inside him. His eyelids fluttered.   
  
The second time he was less sore. The second time it did not hurt as much. He had his doubts, he had his assertions—he repeated his words over and over in his head, reminded himself about the ultimate betrayal he’d have to perform. But, in the meantime, he reasoned, he could still enjoy his situation, still enjoy the feel of Arthur’s cock inside him, striking hard into his willing body. And it was a willing body. It was a feeling he wanted, willingly. He was more stretched, more relaxed. The only thing that mattered was that Arthur was inside him—  
  
And looking at him. He was looking at Alfred as if he’d never seen him before in his life, eyes wide and close. Alfred’s body shuddered, and Arthur’s expression shifted, as if his heart had compressed right in his chest. Rough, squeezing, holding tight.   
  
“What is it?” Arthur whispered.   
  
Alfred stared at him. Their eyes locked, and there was a fullness that Alfred couldn’t quite place. Arthur bit his lower lip and rocked his hips again, pushing into Alfred and pulling out again, setting the pace of in and out, finding the pace that suited himself and suited Alfred. His hips rocked and he pushed closer, much closer. Arthur’s hands fell, one on the back of his thigh, sliding to his ass, the other grasping his knee. He squeezed tightly, spread Alfred wider as he pumped into him, faster and faster.   
  
Alfred’s movements were jerky at first, unsure what to do, trying to catch the rhythm but unable to. But eventually he grasped it, eventually he fell into the beat and pushed back to meet Arthur’s thrusts, pushing Arthur deeper until the head of his cock struck that spot inside of Alfred again and made Alfred cry out, quietly. His body tensed, then relaxed, and he repeated the movement—thrusting up to meet Arthur, their eyes locked.   
  
“Arthur,” he panted out, unable to control his mouth and not wanting to. He ground his cock between their slick bodies, rubbed himself up to Arthur and dragged Arthur ever closer. “Arthur, Arthur, Arthur—”  
  
Arthur kept moving, but his expression kept shifting—and Alfred couldn’t read it. He stared at Alfred, for long moments, as he moved, matching Alfred’s demands to speed the pace up. Alfred lifted his hand, touching at Arthur’s forehead and wiping his fingers against the sweat-stained hair. Arthur’s breaths came out in shuddering gasps. He knew that Arthur had to see him now—had to see only him. Could not possibly see anyone but Alfred.  
  
Arthur pulled away—too far away. He pulled out of Alfred, and Alfred felt the dull ache inside his gut pulse and grow. It sharpened after every second and Alfred sat up as Arthur tilted himself back, staring at Alfred and unable to drag his eyes away.  
  
Arthur gasped out quietly, as if he wished to speak but was unable to find the words. Alfred shifted, legs that fell from Arthur’s shoulders now wrapping around his hips, trying to guide him closer again. But Arthur resisted.   
  
“Turn over,” Arthur commanded, and before waiting for Alfred to do it himself, Arthur seized him by his hips and flipped him over onto his belly. Alfred blinked, tilting his head to stare at him. But Arthur only frowned, thoughtfully, hands curling along Alfred’s hips and raising him onto his hands and knees.   
  
“Arthur—”  
  
“Like that,” Arthur commanded. He murmured, “Don’t look at me.”  
  
Alfred’s breath caught as Arthur pressed up against Alfred’s back, flushed skin to flushed skin. He felt Arthur’s cock press into the curve of Alfred’s ass and then press inside with hardly a breath passing between them. Alfred gasped out, quietly, as Arthur quickly resumed the pace, thrusting in and out of Alfred’s body—shallowly at first, but quickly gaining more depth, especially once Alfred began to thrust back to meet him.   
  
Arthur’s arms curled around him, one pressing against his chest while the other hooked around his chin, forcing his face up. Alfred stared at the wall, unable to see Arthur but feeling him all around him—hearing him, feeling him, breathing him in. Arthur was everywhere and yet Alfred could not see him. He gasped out quietly, felt Arthur’s thumb press against his bottom lip and, sloppily, Alfred drew his lips around it, pressing his tongue against the tip and feeling Arthur’s thrusts grow a bit more frenzied. Alfred’s heart pounded in his chest and before he could stop it, or quite understand that it was upon him, he cried out and felt his body arch as he hit his climax, his orgasm stripping out in white ribbons across his stomach and upon the bed.   
  
“Ah,” Alfred moaned out, and felt Arthur’s hand slide down off his chin, along his throat, and resting against his collarbone as Arthur continued to thrust up against him. It only took a few more moments of thrusting before Arthur jerked hard into Alfred’s body, shuddered, and then grew still.   
  
His body felt warm, and he could feel Arthur filling him up inside all over again. Alfred sighed, slumping, his body fatigued and yet craving more of Arthur’s touch. Arthur panted against his back—he could feel the wisps of his breath against the back of his neck, the dip of his shoulder blades. Arthur nosed into Alfred’s hair, breathing him in, body flat up against Alfred’s own. Alfred’s body shook.   
  
Drained, so drained he felt he could never move again, he could barely hold himself up. And, so, he sank down to his stomach, resting on the bed. Slowly, he felt Arthur slip out of him, though the warmth of his seed remained. Alfred closed his eyes, burying his face into the warm blankets.   
  
Arthur slipped up against him, enveloping his body. He didn’t quite kiss Alfred, but the way his lips brushed against his jaw and his nose nuzzled against the spot just behind his ear was strangely intimate, and Alfred thought to himself that—it was only a matter of time before he could break Arthur.   
  
His heart thundered. Alfred let out a shaky sigh, blinking his eyes a few times to clear his vision.   
  
And then Arthur pulled away from him. Alfred rolled over onto his back, and watched as Arthur readjusted his trousers—never fully removed—and rose to retrieve his shirt. Alfred watched his back, hands curled beside his face and feeling, for once, completely unashamed of his nakedness. He wanted Arthur to touch him again, he realized—he realized he wanted to be touched. He wanted to feel that again.   
  
It was a nice feeling.   
  
Arthur dressed in silence, keeping his eyes down as he adjusted his collar and secured the ties and buttons of his clothes. He looked towards the door, studying it. Alfred watched him.  
  
“I will leave you,” Arthur said, after a moment. “You may sleep here if you wish—or leave. It matters not to me.”   
  
“This is your bed,” Alfred protested, sitting up and crossing his legs. “I should leave.”  
  
Arthur studied his face, and then turned away, moving to the chair and picking up Alfred’s shirt. He left the jacket. As he approached, he bent down to pick Alfred’s trousers off from the foot of the bed and dropped them into Alfred’s lap.   
  
They watched one another.   
  
“Come to bed with me,” Alfred said suddenly.  
  
There was a slight start in Arthur’s expression, but otherwise he did not react. He watched Alfred. Alfred repeated the invitation, and this time Arthur’s lips thinned out into a terse line.   
  
“I won’t bother you about anything,” Alfred said, and smiled. “It can be like it used to.”  
  
“It will never again be as it used to,” Arthur said. “Dress yourself.”   
  
Alfred pulled on his pants slowly, rolling his hips and arching his back as he did so. Arthur watched him the entire time.   
  
Alfred felt oddly guilty once he’d finished, and he said, his tone almost teasing, “Come to bed with me, Arthur.”   
  
Arthur sighed out, slowly, and then moved around the bed, to the other side. He surveyed the blankets, and then surveyed Alfred’s body. Alfred continued to smile. He tried to look as inviting, as innocent, as he could. He tried to keep up the façade, continue to make Arthur believe that he wanted and needed him. All he wanted or needed was a warm body—the fact that it was Arthur didn’t matter at all, he told himself.   
  
Arthur eased down beside Alfred. Alfred shifted, curled close and wrapped his arms around Arthur, tugging him down against him. He looked up at Arthur’s face, but Arthur’s expression was completely closed off. Or, trying to. He attempted to be expressionless, but there was a brief touch of _something_ in his eyes.   
  
Alfred watched Arthur blow out a soft breath and nod a little. Alfred pulled him closer and tucked his head underneath Arthur’s chin. He could feel the pulse of Arthur’s heartbeat. For one brief moment, Alfred felt an unrestrained desire to comfort Arthur. But he quickly squashed it down, and closed his eyes.   
  
“It’s okay,” he said, more to himself than to Arthur.   
  
“Is it?” he heard Arthur say, his throat tight and his words humming against Alfred’s ear.   
  
Alfred nodded his head. “This is how it should be.”  
  
Arthur was silent and did not respond.   
  
Alfred stayed very still, until finally Arthur curled his arms around Alfred’s back. Every muscle in both their bodies were tight, and it was hard to believe they could possibly relax. But Alfred stubbornly kept his eyes shut, stubbornly stayed beside Arthur, stubbornly let Arthur hold him and held Arthur in turn. They stayed still like that, not moving, not speaking. Alfred was not sure how much time passed before Alfred finally began to sink against Arthur—finally seemed to relax a little.  
  
He didn’t dare look up to see if Arthur was awake or asleep. But he himself could not sleep.   
  
But after what felt like hours, but could very well have been less than one hour, Arthur shifted one hand up over Alfred’s back, and stroked along his spine. Alfred didn’t dare move. Arthur continued the ministration, before it too seemed to slow, and Alfred felt Arthur’s head loll to the side. His breathing deepened.   
  
He was asleep.   
  
Alfred didn’t move, expression crumbling as Arthur held him in his sleep.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
When Alfred woke in the morning, his arms held nothing. He blinked his eyes opened, staring at the side of the bed Arthur had slept in the night before. But when he looked off to the side of the bed, he saw Arthur sitting there, his back to Alfred. He either hadn’t realized Alfred was awake yet, or was ignoring him. His back was bent, and his head was cradled in his hands.   
  
Alfred stared at him for a long moment, unsure if he should go back to pretending he was asleep or confront this silent Arthur, this Arthur who bent into himself, his fingers clenched in his hair painfully tight. Something clenched in Alfred’s chest, and he closed his eyes. Freedom, he quietly reminded himself. He was doing this all for his own freedom, his liberty.   
  
“Arthur?” he asked, quietly.  
  
Arthur startled, and then looked over his shoulder at Alfred—straightening up quickly and dropping his hands.  
  
“Good morning,” he said, voice tight.   
  
Alfred sat up, stretching his arms over his head and arching his back. Arthur watched him silently. Alfred slumped, and smiled a little at Arthur. Arthur did not return the smile, but Alfred really hadn’t expected him to. They sat in a stilled silence. Arthur looked as if he might bolt at any moment, so Alfred reached out and grabbed his wrist between his fingers.  
  
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Did you not sleep well?”   
  
Arthur didn’t answer, but he seemed as if he was shaking. He looked down at Alfred’s hand—holding his wrist—and made a soft noise in the back of his throat.   
  
“… It doesn’t concern you,” he said, tersely.   
  
Alfred sincerely doubted that.   
  
Arthur ducked his head, and looked away again. Alfred, with a small roll of his eyes, tugged Arthur forward and back onto the bed, sprawled out on his back. Alfred leaned over him, staring at his face. Arthur stared back up at him in surprise, but otherwise did not protest the sudden movements of their bodies.   
  
“Are you regretting everything so soon?” Alfred asked.  
  
Arthur didn’t respond.  
  
Alfred smiled, low in the dim morning light. “I’m right, aren’t I? Arthur.”   
  
Arthur’s eyes fell shut and he let out a long, tense sigh. “Don’t—”  
  
Eyes shut now, Alfred allowed his expression to soften—for just a moment—before he recollected himself and hardened his expressions. He could not afford to feel true sympathy. He leaned down, tangling his legs with Arthur’s and resting up against his chest, hand on his chest, listening to the thundering of his heartbeat.   
  
“It’s okay,” Alfred said quietly. “You don’t have to regret anything.”   
  
Arthur said nothing.   
  
“We just have to keep moving forward, right? We just have to do what we have to do, right?”   
  
Again, Arthur said nothing. But this time he sighed.   
  
Alfred snuggled closer, curling his knee between Arthur’s legs and pressing up. Arthur stilled, tensing up just a little. Alfred rubbed his knee slowly against the apex of Arthur’s thighs, awakening his cock very slowly. Alfred kept his eyes on Arthur, who finally flickered his eyes open and stared at him, frowning.  
  
“Alfred,” he began, in a warning tone.   
  
“Don’t regret these things. I’m not a child anymore. I’ve made my own decisions, and so have you. So enjoy those decisions.” He continued to rub with his knee, applying more pressure, and feeling the hardness in response to Alfred’s movements. Alfred smiled, low and sultry. “Do you see me as an equal now, Arthur?”   
  
Arthur did not respond, but his mouth opened just a little in a tiny gasp when Alfred dragged the hand on Arthur’s chest slowly downward, slipping beneath the fabric of his trousers and squeezing the half-hard cock he found there.   
  
Alfred kept his eyes on Arthur. Arthur stared up at him in shock, but still did not push Alfred away.   
  
And so Alfred leaned in, running his other hand up and down Arthur’s side, tracing the lines of his stomach, the curves of his ribs. He curled his hand up under Arthur’s shirt and felt the slightly feverish skin there, followed the muscles, curled around the nipples, dipped along the clavicle. All the while, his other hand continued to hold Arthur’s cock—only holding, nothing more. He felt it plump up underneath his fingers, though.   
  
Alfred pressed his lips to Arthur’s forehead, his lips, his jaw, down his neck and over the swell of his adam’s apple, knotting up his words. Alfred felt the increase in his own heart rate, his own breathing. But he did not stop.   
  
“Why won’t you answer me?” he said against Arthur’s neck, lips fire but chilled against Arthur’s neck. He feels Arthur shiver. “Do you see me as your equal? Or am I still a child in your eyes?”  
  
He would have to destroy that image, in order to destroy Arthur—when the time came. When it came time for him to break Arthur. To gain his freedom.   
  
His freedom—  
  
He wrenched Arthur’s trousers down and slid off the bed, pushing Arthur’s legs open so he could lean in, his hot breath against Arthur’s cock. Arthur’s hands went to Alfred’s hair on a reflex, and held fast. Alfred smiled, slowly, before taking the head of Arthur’s cock into his mouth and sucking—innocently enough, despite the position he found himself in. He licked his tongue along the head of Arthur’s cock as he pillowed his lips over the cockhead.   
  
Part of him thought that he shouldn’t be doing this as much as he was—but another part told him that it was okay to take pleasure in these things. It wasn’t wrong. He wondered what it would feel like to have Arthur do it to him—but as quickly as the thought comes to him, how quickly it makes his lip almost curl back in anger. Arthur would never deign to be on his knees before his colony. Alfred kept his touches soft and wet, touching the warming flesh softly, even as the hold on his hair grew rougher and rougher.   
  
Alfred moved his tongue and let his fingers join him, pumping at the root of Arthur’s cock as his mouth and tongue worked at the tip. He sucked and licked, tasting Arthur and feeling Arthur’s hips shiver under his ministrations. Arthur’s hands rubbed through his hair, tugging him closer while simultaneously seemingly wishing to shove him away. But Alfred held fast, and swallowed more of Arthur’s cock into his mouth. His tongue stroked at the velvety skin.   
  
Arthur jerked his hips a bit shallowly, but it was no use—in a few moments Arthur was shuddering and Alfred felt Arthur climax inside of his mouth. Alfred stayed very still, licking and sucking on Arthur until Arthur fell back onto his back and stared up at the ceiling with a vaguely shameful expression in his eyes. Alfred climbed up after him, and leaned down to kiss Arthur so that Arthur could taste himself in Alfred’s mouth.   
  
Alfred swept his tongue into Arthur’s mouth as they kissed, his body shuddering in turn as Arthur, feebly, lifted a hand and touched at the back of Alfred’s neck—drawing him closer and kissing him back with a little more enthusiasm as the kiss progressed.   
  
When they pulled away, they both panted for air, and slowly Arthur rolled away, pulling his trousers back up again and securing them over his bony hips. He seemed to slump into himself all over again.   
  
Alfred stretched out on the bed, wrapping his arms around Arthur’s hips, lazily, face pressed into Arthur’s back.   
  
“Hey,” he said. “It’s okay.”  
  
Arthur’s hand lifted and touched Alfred’s, for one brief moment, before pulling away and carding through his own hair, trying to steady his hair from the bed-mushed display it was now in.   
  
“I know,” he said, quietly, and Alfred wondered if Arthur really knew anything.   
  
Nothing would be okay. Once Alfred was done, he suspected he would have hurt Alfred more than if he’d just kept it to the battlefield, like Gilbert seemed to think was best. Alfred clenched his eyes shut and nuzzled his head into Arthur’s back.   
  
“I don’t see you as a child,” Arthur said, suddenly.   
  
Alfred stilled, eyes flying open. He felt his face heat up, despite himself, and he stared at the bumps of Arthur’s spine in silence.   
  
Arthur sighed, slouching, burying his head in his hands again.   
  
“Christ,” he whispered, voice almost cracking but coming out only in a breathless murmur. “Christ Almighty.”   
  
  
\---  
  
  
Alfred left the house later that afternoon. He was in need of bathing and just—needed to leave. As he walked away, his thoughts were heavy and of Arthur.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
Antonio and Gilbert were practicing sword-fighting outside. Alfred watched them, though it was a useless skill for him to learn, he thought. He was better off focusing on his musket and other artillery. He sat on the ground, a ways away from Antonio and Gilbert so as not to be caught in their fighting. It seemed almost playful, with an underlying hint of deadliness as the two fought back and forth. Gilbert just kept grinning and egging Antonio on, and though Antonio was all smiles, there were moments when his expression almost hardened and he came at Gilbert harder than before.   
  
From inside, Francis shouted something about young men calming down so he could sooth his aching head. Alfred rolled his eyes and watched the other two nations battle it out between them. It seemed as if Antonio was gaining the upper-hand, but Alfred had expected as much.   
  
His mind was elsewhere, however, even as he watched the two fighting. On his own war, his own striving for independence and equality. His thoughts were of Arthur, as much as he was loathed to admit it.   
  
He curled his legs up towards his chest, wrapping his arms around himself and sighing. He was starting to doubt the wisdom of his schemes. He was starting to doubt that this would work. He wanted to fight Arthur, he wanted to be free of Arthur—but he was beginning to believe he could have done that without slipping into Arthur’s bed. He could have done it on the battlefield, and he wouldn’t be feeling as conflicted as he was now. Because he felt a spark of guilt in his gut whenever he thought Arthur—saw the way Arthur touched his hand, touched his face, watched him in the dimming hours of the morning and the night. Part of himself told him to disconnect, but he doubted he could, fully. Not when that house was filled with the ghosts of years he’d long since left behind.   
  
“Is this all meant to be a gain for myself, or for you?” Alfred said suddenly, looking up.  
  
Antonio and Gilbert froze for half a second, thrown off by the sudden voice. Even Francis from inside stopped his momentary moaning of his head. Alfred stared at the two.   
  
But Antonio recovered first and managed to knock the sword from Gilbert’s hand, holding the other man at sword point.   
  
“I win,” he said, easily, and then sheathed his sword at his side. He didn’t look back to Gilbert as he approached Alfred. And when he smiled, there was no hard glint in his eyes as before, but rather a sunny expression that actually, for half a moment, put Alfred ill at ease. “What is it, Alfred?”   
  
Alfred looked up at him, and frowned to himself. Gilbert, muttering about how _this shit isn’t my business_ , wandered off to clean his guns again, as always. Antonio continued to look down at Alfred.  
  
“Did you wish to learn sword-fighting?” Antonio asked, smiling cheerfully. “Sometimes watching can help, but it’s also good to get hands-on experience. I’m sorry if you didn’t feel it was a gain—I didn’t mean to neglect you.”   
  
Alfred quickly shook his head. “I wasn’t talking about swords.”   
  
“Aaah,” Antonio said with a sigh. He dropped down next to Alfred, smiling still. “What, then?”  
  
“What I’m—um. Arthur,” Alfred said, his frown only deepening even as Antonio’s smile widened. “Is what I’m doing with Arthur a benefit for myself, or is it some kind of… strange thing that you European countries do to each other?”   
  
“A strange thing?” Antonio mimicked.   
  
“Are you using me to get back at Arthur? Or is this really for my own good that you two suggested this in the first place?”   
  
Antonio continued to look at him, betraying nothing behind his smile. Then he hummed slowly, brows knitting together and crossing his arms, deep in thought.   
  
And then the smile dimmed just slightly as he sighed. “Sometimes,” he said, voice surprisingly quiet, “necessary evils must be committed, and it is important not to let them haunt you.”   
  
Alfred stared at him in shock.  
  
Antonio’s smile was back. “If you believe it’s necessary, then you should not hesitate.”   
  
Alfred felt a little too cold. Antonio stood up, adjusting his collar, smiling all the while.  
  
“Do you truly believe that?” Alfred asked.  
  
“Do you believe what you’re doing is right, ultimately?” Antonio asked. “If it means your independence, will you do it?”  
  
Alfred had to tear his eyes away. He bit his bottom lip.   
  
“If you believe so, does it matter what other’s motives may be? Sometimes it’s better not to see other’s motives at all,” Antonio said.   
  
And before he waited for Alfred’s response, he ambled away, in the vague direction Gilbert had drifted off to. Alfred watched him go, feeling his heart tight in his throat and not quite sure why.   
  
He stood and went back inside, finding Francis lounging in a chair, fanning himself despite the chill in the air, and trying to dash away a headache, evidently.   
  
He smiled at Alfred. “Did you have a pleasant conversation?”  
  
“You heard that, then,” Alfred said with a sigh and sank down into his chair. “Necessary evils. Huh.”   
  
“Indeed,” Francis said, voice a velvet purr. “Alfred, I must tell you. If you wish to stop it, if you feel compromised, it will be simple enough to end it. Just do not return. End it now.”  
  
Alfred felt something twitch inside him. “I don’t feel compromised. I don’t know what you mean.”  
  
“Perhaps you are not as disengaged from your feelings as I’d originally suspected,” Francis said, in a way that suggested no true remorse but perhaps some thoughtfulness. He ceased fanning his face, staring instead at Alfred with inquisitive eyes that left Alfred feeling uneasy.   
  
“What are you talking about?” Alfred muttered.  
  
“Perhaps it would have been better if you’d been indifferent to our dear Arthur, rather than hate him. Hatred, after all, is such a passionate emotion. And the line is so incredibly thin, the one between hatred and lo—”  
  
“Stop it,” Alfred snapped. “I’m not feeling compromised. I’m don’t care what I do to Arthur, if it means my independence. And Arthur is fooled—he has to be fooled. He’s sentimental, he’s foolish—”  
  
“Then why,” Francis said, tilting his head. “Are you hesitating now?”   
  
“I’m not,” Alfred insisted.   
  
“I wonder,” Francis murmured. He looked up to the ceiling for a moment, thoughtful. “Is it more destructive to be taken by surprise by a betrayal, or to know the betrayal is coming all along and still allowing for it to happen? Which is more pathetic, Alfred?”   
  
“… What do you mean?” Alfred asked, a chill running down his spine. He stood up, feeling his eyes narrow. “Look, I don’t know what you’re getting at, Francis. But. I’m okay. I’m not hesitating. I was just wondering—thinking out loud. I know what I have to do. I know what I’ll do—there’s no guilt, there’s no hesitation. I am not _compromised._ ”   
  
He turned away, wandering towards the exit.  
  
He paused, looking back over at Francis. He frowned, but Francis just watched him calmly.   
  
Alfred said, quietly, and hated that his voice cracked for half a moment, “I hate him. So I’ll do whatever I can to get my freedom.”   
  
He turned away and said no more.   
  
Once he had left the room, Francis smiled after him, a sad, slow smile. He said, quietly, to himself: “Perhaps I have made a mistake in this.”


	4. Sinking Soon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Francis advices Alfred to abandon his plans, Alfred surges forward - too quickly.

  
“Alfred,” Francis said, quietly, coming up behind Alfred. Alfred blinked, looking over at Francis, taken aback by the strange gravity in Francis’ voice and the way his lips quirked down into a frown.  
  
“What is it?” Alfred asked.  
  
“I’d like a word with you, if you please,” Francis said, softly, and swept out his arm, signaling for Alfred to walk with him.  
  
Alfred nodded a little and fell in step next to Francis. They walked in silence around the army camp. Alfred saw Gilbert and Antonio in the distance training his men. Gilbert was shouting something while laughing and Antonio’s mind seemed elsewhere. But that was the way with them.   
  
“Francis?” Alfred asked after a long pause in which Alfred began to doubt that Francis would say anything at all.  
  
Francis sighed and came to a stop, raising a hand to touch at his forehead, looking off into the middle distance. Alfred frowned, but waited patiently.   
  
“Alfred, I debated saying anything at all, but…” Francis began, and then said, quite seriously, “I believe you should abandon your ploy to break Arthur.”   
  
“My ploy… it was yours to begin with,” Alfred protested. The words sounded weak.   
  
Francis cracked a smile. “Indeed. But even so. You are the one executing it, and I must tell you that I believe it would be best to lay such plans aside.”   
  
“Why are you telling me this now?” Alfred demanded, feeling his body tense up. “It’s almost—I cannot back down now. I cannot back away. It’s too late. I’m too close now, I can feel it. I will… I will break Arthur. He’ll…”  
  
He lapsed away.  
  
Francis reached up a hand, touching Alfred’s cheek. Alfred startled from the contact, but did not pull away.   
  
“Dear Alfred,” Francis said, calmly, expression one that Alfred had never seen on Francis’ face before. A strange mixture of pity and regret, a strange mixture of something else, as if he _knew_ something that Alfred did not. “You are foolish to do so. I have lived much longer than you have, and I understand much more than you do. Listen to me when I say it would be best if you did not return to Arthur, even with the purpose of destruction.”  
  
“Why do you tell me this?” Alfred demanded again. “Why do you suddenly grow a conscience now?”   
  
Francis laughed, bitter and quiet. Wryly, he dropped his hand away from Alfred’s cheek and began walking again. Alfred followed after him, stomping through the grass around the camp.  
  
Francis was silent for a long moment, but he did speak again. “Arthur is not the only one who would break.”  
  
“What, do you mean his armies as well? Isn’t that the point?” Alfred asked, skeptical.  
  
Francis shook his head, and smiled a little. “I was mistaken, Alfred. I underestimated some things when I suggested this course of action. Strange isn’t it, that it would be Gilbert who demonstrates the most restraint among us?” Francis laughed, lightly. “You should have listened to him. He is a superb soldier, after all.”  
  
Alfred sped his pace up and stopped directly in front of Francis. Both froze.   
  
“You’re telling me to stop,” Alfred said.   
  
“I believe it would be wise,” Francis amended. “I am advising you. I do not command you. I am not like your colonizer, Alfred.”   
  
Alfred jerked his face away, staring down at the ground and biting his lip. His heart hummed in his ears and he had to take a few steadying breaths before he could calm himself down.   
  
“It’s too late now,” Alfred said. “I can’t back down. I can’t be a coward—not when… I’m this close.”   
  
“Alfred—”  
  
“You think I can’t do it? Is that what it is? I’ll show you. I’ll prove it to you. I’ll break England… I will.”   
  
He turned away from Francis and marched away before the other man could protest or call after him.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
He found the doorknob in the darkness, and stepped into the front hallway of the house. Arthur was there waiting for him, and no words passed between them as the door shut behind Alfred and Alfred moved to Arthur, their arms curling around each other and mouths dovetailing together. It would almost have been romantic, had it been anyone else—  
  
But Alfred just felt like a liar. He sighed against Arthur’s mouth, opening wider for his tongue.   
  
The night dissolved away as they found their way to the bedroom once again.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
Alfred awoke the next morning in Arthur’s bed. He felt sore all over. He didn’t dare move or roll over, and instead stayed tucked beneath the blankets, eyes shut, letting his breathing come out smoothly. He felt more than heard Arthur shift beside him, not a foot away, one hand resting on his back—not quite possessively, but undoubtedly there. The pressure was familiar. Alfred could have slept the rest of the morning away.   
  
But after a moment, Alfred blinked his eyes open and turned his head to look at Arthur. Arthur’s eyes were shut, and his breathing was audible from his parted lips. His hand was warm on Alfred’s back, thumb just touching his spine, the other fingers splayed out across his back. Arthur breathed in and out. Smooth and deep and peaceful.   
  
Alfred watched him, face sinking into the warmth of the bed, sinking under the weight of Arthur’s single hand. Distantly, he reminded himself that he should hate, even in these moments, that Arthur still tried to dominate and control him. That even now, he tried to own him and use him.  
  
But, instead, Alfred just shifted, lifting a hand and touching Arthur’s forehead. Arthur didn’t react, except for the slightest movement of his hand, a stutter of warm breath passing from his lips as his fingertips traced the dip of his spine, following each little bump down into the curve of the small of his back. And rested there. The touch was pleasant and warm—  
  
Alfred closed his eyes, sighing, sinking down against that touch. He knew he shouldn’t. He knew it was too much—and yet he could not stop the way his body felt so utterly at peace.   
  
“Alfred?” Arthur murmured, and then blinked his eyes open—and seemed surprised that Alfred was still there, and not just a figment of a dream. His hand twitched and shifted, petting along his spine, comforting, pleasurably. Alfred longed for more of that touch, he distantly realized. Alfred considered moving his hand away from Arthur. Instead, though, he slid it down and followed the line of Arthur’s neck, then rested on his bare shoulder.   
  
“Morning,” he greeted, smiling a little despite himself.   
  
Arthur studied Alfred’s face. Alfred watched Arthur in turn, unsure what to make of the scrutiny. Arthur’s eyes roamed over the features of his face, studying his eyes and the way the sun filtered through the window and bathed across Alfred’s cheeks. Alfred felt too exposed, though: worried, as always, that Arthur would see _something_ that he wasn’t meant to see. Something that would betray and ruin everything—something that would make everything break and shatter.   
  
So Alfred closed his eyes and flopped down against the bed, sighing. His hand fell from Arthur’s shoulder, resting on the bed slowly. Arthur’s free hand reached up, touching Alfred’s fingertips, as if contemplating threading their fingers together. But he seemed to think better of it, in the end, and he pulled his hand away.   
  
Arthur’s other hand on Alfred’s back, meanwhile, shifted, smoothing over his back again, following the line of his spine up and down, idly. The tough was feather-light, and it made Alfred’s heart stutter. There was something too intimate—somehow more intimate than anything else they’d done before that very moment. And yet Alfred could not summon the urge to roll away from Arthur’s hand, so Arthur’s hand continued its journey.   
  
And then the hand drifted a little lower and Alfred let out a small little sound and opened his eyes. He kept them open only long enough to find Arthur’s mouth so he could lean in and kiss him, opening his lips and letting Arthur’s tongue touch at the straight line of his teeth, inviting and surprisingly gentle despite everything. His breath tasted of the morning, but it was alright. Alfred shifted closer, propping himself up on his elbows so he could get a better angle, stroking his tongue against Arthur’s, letting himself be absorbed by Arthur and absorbing him in turn.   
  
Arthur licked the roof of Alfred’s mouth, his teeth, and his full lower lip. He pushed in deeper and pulled away only to push back again. They continued in this fashion until they were taking desperate, gulping breaths of one another, Arthur’s hands fisting in Alfred’s hair and tugging him close. His fingers twisted, almost painfully, but naturally.   
  
It was in this moment that Alfred realized he was rolling his hips against the bed and his cock _ached._ He refused to whimper, but had he been a lesser man, he would have. Instead, he kissed Arthur a little more desperately. Arthur’s fingers curled harshly in Alfred’s hair, one finger shifting, curling, around the lock of flyaway hair that refused to flatten. Alfred’s breath came out in short little bursts—not pleading. He refused to plead.   
  
He pulled away from the kiss as Arthur untangled his fingers, only to grab Alfred’s shoulders and shove him, off his stomach and onto his back. Arthur’s eyes found the arch of his hardened cock almost instantly, and though there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes, he otherwise said nothing.   
  
Alfred bit at his lip, and then cried out just a little when Arthur cupped his cock in his hand, stroking it between his fingertips.   
  
“It’s the morning,” Alfred protested, but didn’t quite have any force to the argument as he jerked his hips upward into Arthur’s hand.   
  
“Indeed,” Arthur agreed, and leaned in to kiss at Alfred’s jaw. “You’ll be the death of me, boy.”   
  
He spoke lightly, but a shiver ran down Alfred’s spine all the same. He jerked his hips a few times, shallow and uneven. He panted, eyes hooded as he stared up at Arthur. And Arthur watched him, his expression unreadable before leaning in and kissing Alfred’s lips again, stroking Alfred’s cock.   
  
Alfred groped blindly, hand colliding with Arthur’s knee and then going up and in until he found Arthur’s cock in turn, fingers curling around it and pumping in time to Arthur’s ministrations. He pumped and squeezed, stroking in the way he knew Arthur liked. Arthur’s breath came out in a soft gasp against Alfred’s mouth, and Alfred swept his tongue into Arthur’s mouth, laying claim to him in turn. Arthur was his—his to break, his to destroy, his to break free from. And he would be free. He just had to keep repeating that to himself—had to keep reminding himself that this meant his freedom. And he would take it at all costs. He curled his other arm around the back of Arthur’s neck, tugging him closer as he moved. Arthur responded, stroking him from root to tip, thumbing at his cockhead, his other hand splaying across Alfred’s stomach and shifting upwards over his chest, fingers touching at every inch of his skin. Drifting up, drifting down. Ever present—a heavy weight above his constricting lungs and beating heart.   
  
They pulled away with a shaky gasp of air, and Alfred fluttered his eyes open, staring up at Arthur, who hovered above him him. He stared down at Alfred with a softened expression, but distant—far away. Too faraway. Alfred longed to pull him closer.   
  
“… Well?” Alfred asked, noting the way Arthur hesitated. He could not think of anything else to say—any other way to get Arthur closer than this: he stroked at Arthur’s cock, and Arthur’s eyes fluttered shut. Alfred continued to squeeze and stroke his fingers at the tip of Arthur’s cock, continued to lay waste to the pleasure between them—continued to draw him ever closer to Alfred’s ultimate goal. “Well?” he repeated. “Aren’t you going to…”  
  
“Patience, my dear lad,” Arthur murmured, and blinked his eyes open. His eyes burned. They stared straight at Alfred—  
  
Alfred pulled him closer.   
  
Arthur studied Alfred’s face for a moment, even reached out to touch it. But then he looked away, fiddling with the side table and grabbing the bottle of oil they’d used for lubricant the night before. Alfred would get what he wanted.   
  
It was okay if he enjoyed this, he thought to himself, always reminded himself in these situations—it would be okay, because it would mean his freedom.  
  
His freedom.  
  
He would never grow tired of hearing it, of knowing that possibility. It was so near at hand, now. He knew—he knew it was only a matter of time before he could break Arthur.   
  
Alfred’s mind was in disarray. It felt too good—he felt too relaxed. He reminded himself of what he was meant to do, of breaking Arthur. But his mind cracked, and he just watched the way Arthur moved—mesmerized by the way Arthur moved.   
  
Arthur returned to him, shifting between Alfred’s legs. Alfred blew out a short breath of air, lifting his legs to drape his knees over Arthur’s shoulders. Arthur slumped closer, their faces close together. Arthur stared at him, wide-eyed, as if still bewildered as to how Alfred could be there—and Alfred hated to think his expression was probably much the same.   
  
Arthur slanted his eyes away, fiddled with the oil, and pressed a wet finger to Alfred’s entrance.   
  
“Cold,” Alfred said quietly.   
  
“I know, lad,” Arthur murmured, apologetic without ever speaking the actual word.   
  
“You don’t have to treat me so carefully,” Alfred reminded as Arthur slowly wedged a finger up and into Alfred. Alfred’s jaw clenched just slightly, but for the most part he was used to Arthur stretching him—had grown used to it, even, cautiously, was beginning to enjoy it.   
  
“I know, lad,” Arthur said again, eyes on Alfred’s chest.   
  
“I’m used to having you, now,” Alfred said, quieter still.  
  
Arthur’s eyes fell shut. He leaned forward and kissed Alfred’s throat, a second finger pressing in to join its twin. Alfred swallowed thickly, and Arthur peppered his lips against Alfred’s adam’s apple when he did, pulling Alfred up onto Arthur’s knees with his other hand, to get a better angle and to make it more comfortable for Alfred.   
  
Alfred’s breathing came out in quiet pants as Arthur worked, arching and curling his fingers, pumping in and out of him, preparing him for the wide girth of Arthur’s cock. He could hear his heart thundering in his ears as he grabbed at Arthur’s neck, nails digging into the skin there and holding tight. His eyes found Arthur’s, and Arthur’s held his.  
  
There was too much left unspoken around them, and though Alfred knew what he would have to do, he still found himself hesitating, despite it all. And despite it all, Alfred’s thoughts drifted to what Gilbert, Antonio, and Francis had said before—about what he should do, and why he was doing it. And he reminded himself that this was all for the good of his future—for his independence. That was his only reason for doing it. That was the only reason he would need to do it. Even if he hated being here, hated being with Arthur, with letting Arthur take him so wantonly, he would not back down—not if it meant his freedom.  
  
He told himself he hated it. But then he blinked his eyes and was staring up at Arthur, and Arthur’s face was open and lax, mouth parted slightly as he nudged his cock into Alfred. Alfred felt his own mouth open slightly, body pale but open to Arthur—full and taken. He cried out, low in his throat, as Arthur slowly removed his fingers, his cock squeezing into him only after Arthur had angled his body properly. Arthur stared at him, biting at his lower lip, face flushed.   
  
“Alfred,” he whispered.   
  
Alfred squeezed at the back of Arthur’s neck, imagined what it would be like to break it—how easily he could do so, right then.   
  
But he didn’t. Instead, his fingers tangled into Arthur’s hair and held tight. He smiled, broken and wavering.   
  
“Yes,” he said, and that was all. He curled his fingers through Arthur’s hair, tugging and pulling, fingers sliding through and cupping the back of his head. He tried to bring Arthur closer, but the angle didn’t allow for Arthur to fuck him and kiss him at the same time, so he settled on grabbing one of Arthur’s hands and kissing it—  
  
And wasn’t sure why he was doing so. His heart thundered. He closed his eyes, and guided Arthur’s hand to his cock, silently longing to be touched. Arthur obeyed, squeezing him in his hand and pumping him in time with his shallow thrusts.   
  
“Ah,” Alfred moaned, his head tipping back. He stared at the ceiling and found it too drab, so he turned his eyes back to watch Arthur. Arthur worked diligently, his brow furrowed, his lips quirked downward. His eyes were completely on Alfred.   
  
Alfred smiled up at him, not sure what to say—what to do. It was all achingly familiar, but it seemed as if something had changed, as well.   
  
“Yes,” Alfred whispered as Arthur continued. “Arthur…”  
  
Instead of responding, Arthur just stared at Alfred, his expression darkening for just a moment. And then he shook his head, squeezed Alfred’s cock, and continued to thrust into him—picking up the pace just a little.   
  
“I wonder,” Arthur said, suddenly, as he jerked his hips up and into Alfred, whose body moved in time with the thrusts.   
  
“Wonder what?” Alfred said, just managing to keep his voice steady.   
  
“Why it is that you come here,” Arthur said.   
  
Alfred felt a spike in his heart, but he ignored it. He dug his nails into the back of Arthur’s head and bit at his lip.   
  
“How—”  
  
“You’re right here,” Arthur said, almost as if he were speaking to himself, almost as if he weren’t speaking to Alfred at all. “You are right there and yet… and yet I cannot…”  
  
“Arthur?” Alfred asked, unsure what to make of this sudden doubt in Arthur’s voice. Unsure why they were talking about this when Arthur should be enjoying Alfred’s body, and Alfred enjoying Arthur’s in turn.   
  
“And yet you go away. Wouldn’t it be easier for you to just stay here forever?” Arthur asked. “There’s no need for us to fight anymore, Alfred.”  
  
Alfred felt his body go cold, even as Arthur stroked at his cock and rolled his hips into him. He stared at Arthur, wide-eyed. His entire body froze up, his hands clammy.   
  
His throat was dry when he tried to speak.  
  
It was almost a full minute before he managed to speak again.   
  
“What are you saying?” he managed out in a quiet hiss.   
  
“There is no reason for this war,” Arthur said, quietly, voice thick with emotion that did not quite show up in his face—he was always so reserved, calculated. Calm. But Alfred could see the way Arthur’s hands shook. Alfred could see the way the sweat collected at the corners of his temples—and not just from the exertion of the morning sex.   
  
Alfred jerked his face back, scowling. “You want me to _surrender_?”   
  
Arthur didn’t speak, but his lips did thin out.   
  
“You want me to surrender to _you_?” Alfred continued.  
  
Still, Arthur did not speak. Hair fell into his eyes as he bent his head.   
  
Alfred shifted, shoving his hands against Arthur’s chest. He hissed out a quiet, “How dare you?”   
  
“Alfred, I—”  
  
“You _know_ why I’m fighting you!” Alfred interrupted. “You know why I want to be free from you!”   
  
Arthur recoiled in turn, and Alfred’s legs fell from his shoulders.   
  
“You said you saw me as an equal, before!” Alfred continued. “Don’t—don’t think you can _manipulate_ me like this, and make me come crawling back to you! It’s too late, Arthur! I told you—I told you! This isn’t—this isn’t about the war, this isn’t about how I feel as a country—”  
  
Something in his body was snapping, and he wondered if what he was saying was an act or not. The fact that he could not know for sure was too telling, too horrifying. He struggled, pushing at Arthur, but Arthur refused to be pushed, grabbing Alfred’s wrists and holding tight, nails digging into his paled skin.   
  
Alfred jerked his hands, though, away from Arthur’s chest, only to grab his hips. And, despite everything, he did not push Arthur’s hips away, but instead drew them closer. He shifted his body.   
  
“This? This has nothing to do with the war,” Alfred snapped, knew he was lying through his teeth and yet—  
  
“Alfred,” Arthur interrupted, desperate. “Stop—”  
  
“No, you stop,” Alfred demanded, still snapping his hips down to meet Arthur, who remained still for a moment before slowly resuming the pace, eyes wide. Alfred stubbornly rolled his hips, curled his legs around Arthur’s hips, and drew Arthur in. And as he demanded the actions of Arthur’s body, he continued to speak: “You just stop everything, Arthur. Stop everything!”   
  
Arthur did not respond, though it seemed as if he had choked on his words. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. So he just steadied his expression, into a practiced neutrality. They moved in silence for a moment, the rhythm of before completely lost, the sunshine comfort of the morning soured now. But Arthur found his thrusts again, moving in and out of Alfred. Alfred felt the bile rising in his throat, knowing that he should leave—leave right now. And yet he did not want to—he wanted Arthur to finish.  
  
“You said you don’t see me as a child,” Alfred said, suddenly, “So see me as an equal now. Treat me as one. Don’t treat me like something you own. Fight for me, fine. But you’ll lose. I am going to beat you, Arthur.”   
  
Arthur stared at him. And then his expression darkened.   
  
“You aren’t _here_ for the war at all?” Arthur asked, his voice a dark curl of some kind of suppressed emotion—anger, disgust—Alfred could not tell.  
  
“I’m not,” Alfred lied, but despite the lie, his voice was all conviction. He glared back up at Arthur, whose expression continued to darken to anger. But Alfred was there to match his anger with his own. The rhythm of their bodies matched their breath now—raspy, desperate, shallow.   
  
“If you want to leave me so badly, why do you keep returning here?” Arthur insisted, snapping his hips.   
  
“I told you!” Alfred said, eyes narrowing. He grabbed at Arthur, held tight. “There is a difference between my politics and my—my feelings.”   
  
Something hitched inside Alfred.   
  
_Lie, lie, lie—remember to lie—_  
  
It was all a lie, he reminded himself. That was all it was.   
  
He distracted himself by thrusting down harshly onto Arthur, insisting on Arthur’s diligence.   
  
“You cannot leave me to fend for myself for years and years and come back thinking you can control me so completely again,” Alfred insisted, “You cannot believe that you can possibly know what I want or need anymore.”  
  
“You are part of my empire—” Arthur began.  
  
“And yet, even before we thought of becoming our own country, you never considered me or my people Englishmen. You _mocked my people_ for thinking that.”   
  
“And yet you enjoy more rights than my own people—”  
  
“I don’t care! You can’t leave me to care for myself and come back suddenly thinking you can mother me as if I were a young child!” Alfred snapped. “You are _not_ my father, or my brother, Arthur.”   
  
Arthur stuttered to a stop for a moment. He scowled, expression dark and eyes stormy. His hands were curled into fists, knuckles white, nails digging into his palms. He breathed out through his nostrils, flared—face red. And then he moved. His movements became more frenzied. They glared at each other as Arthur thrust up into him.   
  
“I am not _yours_ ,” Alfred gritted out.  
  
And Arthur growled out something, inaudible words—possibly not even in English—and jerked his hips harshly into Alfred. He thrust—he claimed. But it was harsher than he’d ever handled Alfred before, and Alfred’s body seized up as it slammed up against the headboard. The bed groaned and creaked beneath the movement, and Alfred’s body ignited with a pain he’d never felt before.   
  
He clenched his eyes shut, crying out softly and hating himself for it.  
  
“God—!” Alfred cried out. Body tight—pain, pain, pain—  
  
Arthur froze at once, though, body shifting, leaning over Alfred.   
  
“Alfred,” he said, desperately, all venom and anger gone from his voice now. There was only concern, there was only pain. “Oh, God, my dear—I’m so sorry. Are you alright? Alfred—”  
  
Alfred opened his eyes in shock, body still tensed up from the sudden pain, and finding Arthur staring down at him, hover over him, eyebrows slanted, eyes wide, clearly completely concerned and fearful for him. Pained. So much pain in those eyes. Alfred stared up at him in shock, unsure what to make of the sudden transformation—from anger to concern. It left him reeling.   
  
Alfred wondered, though, if it was too late now. If now it was the time to break Arthur—if now was the time to reveal that, yes, he was lying before, that he was here only for the war. He was here only for Arthur to reveal just how concerned he was, just how much he wanted Alfred—he could see it in his eyes in that moment. Alfred wondered if now was the time to break Arthur, now was the time to gain his freedom. Now was his time to win.  
  
But Arthur was taking his silence for one of pain, and he was backing away from him, slipping out of Alfred, hissing out a quiet apology, his expression flushing with shame.   
  
And Alfred realized he did not want to break Arthur—  
  
He wanted to comfort him.  
  
“Wait,” Alfred said, grabbing Arthur’s wrist and tugging him closer. His face was still red from his anger before, but he felt his body relax as he drew Alfred closer to him again. He blinked up at Arthur, and then sat up, reaching up a hand to touch Arthur’s cheek. “I’m okay.”  
  
Arthur stared at him, bewildered.  
  
Alfred felt just as overwhelmed, too.   
  
“I… we don’t have to talk about this,” Alfred said. But still added, “Even if I’m in the right. But… I know you didn’t mean to hurt me. But… still, I won’t lose. I’ll do anything I can to win.”   
  
Arthur’s expression crumbled, and he looked away.   
  
“Arthur,” Alfred insisted, lifting Arthur’s chin and kissing at the corner of his mouth. “I said it before, right? I don’t care about any of that—” It felt wrong, to lie to him like this. But he had to do anything he could. He couldn’t break Arthur now, obviously, because now wasn’t the right time. But the time was close. “I lo—”  
  
“Don’t say it,” Arthur interrupted. “Alfred, don’t—”  
  
“I do love you,” Alfred insisted, and hated himself for the lie, even as the bile rose in his throat. His eyes stung for half a moment, and he marveled at it. But did not relent. “And I guess in some kind of horrible way… I’m glad that I’m important to you. Even if I’ll still fight you until the end.”  
  
Arthur’s expression flickered, and he sighed—world-weary, crushed—nothing more. “You are important,” he whispered. “You… you are the most important.”   
  
He whispered it, but he might as well have screamed it for all the force it slammed into Alfred. Alfred felt his body run cold, felt his throat go dry. He stared at Arthur, stared at the way Arthur looked at him—seemed to come to his own realization, deep down in his gut—because he looked away; because he lowered his eyes.  
  
“I can’t anymore,” Arthur whispered—voice eerily calm.   
  
“Can’t what?”  
  
“It isn’t anything…” Arthur murmured, shaking his head. “It doesn’t concern you. It’s something I’d decided on my own, before. But I…”  
  
“Hey,” Alfred interrupted when Arthur trailed off. “We don’t… have to talk about this.”   
  
He reached out a hand, fisting Arthur’s cock, still half-hard and covered with the oil. He squeezed it, but other than a little lapse in Arthur’s breath, he did not move or respond.   
  
Alfred frowned, desperate for things to return as they were, desperate for the resume of his manipulation and revenge. Things were too gentle now, too intimate and too truthful. And all the while, Alfred knew he was lying.  
  
Alfred swallowed and, before he could stop the thought, it flitted through his mind: _I should never have done this._   
  
“Take me,” Alfred whispered, leaning back, hooking his legs over Arthur’s shoulders again. Arthur stared at him, expression crumbled and not even attempting to repair it. Alfred, desperate, whispered out, “Please, Arthur. Take me. You can’t have me anywhere else but here.”   
  
Arthur closed his eyes, and grabbed Alfred’s thighs, adjusting his body, squeezing between his legs and adjusting the legs on his shoulders. Alfred leaned back on his back, and stared at the ceiling.   
  
“I… can’t believe it’s you,” Arthur whispered.   
  
Alfred closed his eyes. “Yeah.”   
  
Arthur made a soft, distant sound, and cradled Alfred’s body as he entered back into him, thrusting up slowly. He kept his pace shallow and soft, taking great pains not to hurt Alfred again. Alfred kept his eyes shut, unable to look up at Arthur again.   
  
When Arthur came inside him, it was completely unsatisfying and Alfred felt empty. His mind was elsewhere. His mind was heavy with his thoughts, with his realizations, with his hesitations. Arthur thrust into him for a minute until he was drained completely inside of Alfred, and pulled away from the warmth of Alfred’s body. He leaned in close, kissing Alfred’ s forehead—weak and melancholy, as if saying goodbye—and even as Arthur stroked him to orgasm, Alfred could not pretend he enjoyed any of it. His body felt numb. His heart ached inside his chest. There was ringing in his ears.  
  
But he touched Arthur’s cheek as Arthur went to pull away.  
  
“Wait,” he mouthed.   
  
Arthur froze, eyes wide.   
  
Somehow, everything had fallen apart.   
  
“Dear boy,” Arthur whispered, cupping Alfred’s hand. “Precious boy.”   
  
Arthur leaned into Alfred’s hand upon his cheek, keeping it there with his own hand. Arthur closed his eyes tightly, body taut as a bow. Alfred stared up at Arthur, unable to fathom such a reaction, and not sure if he wanted to understand. He sat up, body exhausted, heart even more so.   
  
“Dearest boy,” Arthur repeated, pressing a kiss to Alfred’s hand before looking away.   
  
“Arthur…” Alfred said.   
  
“You are my equal,” Arthur murmured. “You are my equal now. But that’s why I… that’s why I cannot—”  
  
“Cannot what?” Alfred insisted.  
  
“I cannot treat you as my enemy,” Arthur whispered. “I cannot treat you as I would my equal enemy.”   
  
“But you have to,” Alfred insisted. “That’s what I want.”  
  
“I’d thought I could,” Arthur whispered. “I’d thought that I could do to you what I do to my enemies. But… I cannot.”   
  
He shook his head.   
  
“I cannot,” he whispered.   
  
“But why not?” Alfred insisted.  
  
Arthur shook his head. Alfred felt his heart swell. He leaned in, capturing Arthur’s face with his hands, cupping his cheeks and forcing him to look at him.   
  
The entire world seemed to crash into him at that moment—  
  
The desire to protect him, to comfort him, even as he strove to get away from him. Not wanting him to worry, not wanting him to look so damned unhappy and so damned pained and guilty. Alfred could not think what Arthur had done, when it was Alfred himself who was doing these things.   
  
Terrified of the attachment Alfred saw there—perhaps had always been there, and Alfred had just managed to squash it away—Alfred recoiled, releasing his hold on Arthur.   
  
He tumbled out of bed, ignoring Arthur’s call to make sure he was alright. Alfred scrambled, hurrying into his clothes. He rushed out of the room, even as Arthur called after him, made to get up and dress himself.   
  
Alfred ran as fast as his legs could carry him—out of the room, down the stairs, across the hall, out of the house—  
  
To the woods, to the woods. He was safe there. He would always be safe there.   
  
He wondered if he should stop everything—never return again. It was too dangerous now.   
  
He could not return there, he should stop it all. Everything. He longed, for one brief moment, for everything to return to normal—to what it once was. Return to before he’d gotten it into his head to break Arthur—as if he could ever break Arthur. Arthur, the man who had raised him, who had loved him, who had cared for him, misguided though he was, stubborn though he was, senseless though he was. Despite everything, Alfred knew he could not do it, knew that it would have been impossible from the very start—  
  
But he knew it could never return to normal. That could never again be the case. He wanted to be free, above all things. He would be free. Even if he loved—  
  
Alfred froze his thoughts immediately, eyes flying open wide.   
  
_No!_   
  
He could not. It was impossible. He couldn’t possibly—  
  
 _No…_


	5. Set for Self-Destruct

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The time to complete his task has come, and Alfred can't help but hesitate.

It took days before Alfred could stomach the idea of seeing Arthur again. He’d tried a few times before to go back there, but every time he got too close, there was a throb deep in his gut that froze him in place.   
  
But how Arthur mocked him—even when out of sight, he tore destructively through Alfred’s mind. All Alfred could think on was Arthur, all he could think on was the moments they’d spent together, Alfred trying to teeter him over the edge. All he could think on was the way Arthur arched over him, the way his eyes burned into him—the way Alfred, for one brief moment, thought he loved Arthur.  
  
A ridiculous thought.   
  
But it was one that would not leave him be, and refused to disappear from his mind. It left Alfred feeling cold, chilled. He shuddered in the night, eyes clenched tight to try to banish the images of Arthur’s body, Arthur’s eyes—his own body reacting to the memories like any person’s body would. And it was with deep shame and disgust that Alfred responded to those thoughts, and reacted, hand fisted around his cock and pumping himself to an uneasy climax, swallowing Arthur’s name on his lips.   
  
It couldn’t last. Alfred knew that was the case. Either way, things would be destroyed. He couldn’t break Arthur, he knew that now. Whether it was… love, or pity— _please let it be pity!_ —he feared his ability to follow through with his plan. But he couldn’t _not_ return again. That, too, would break Arthur. Either way, he would betray Arthur. And he should have known from the beginning that it would come to this—  
  
And he should have known from the beginning that it would bother him like this. It shouldn’t. It shouldn’t, and yet—  
  
Alfred clenched his eyes shut, and breathed in and out, slowly, trying to settle the feverish pulse of his blood and the sputtering run of his heart. But it was all in vain.   
  
He stepped up onto the threshold of his old childhood home, now Arthur’s. He stared at the door for a long moment, and then lifted his hand to open the door—  
  
Only for Arthur to open it.  
  
There was a stilled silence, Alfred’s eyes widening in surprise, Arthur staring up at him, disbelieving.   
  
“I didn’t think you’d return again,” Arthur said, quietly, and the words shattered the stilted silence between them, frozen unnaturally.   
  
Arthur slanted his eyes away first.   
  
“I returned,” Alfred said.   
  
Arthur turned away and walked, but left the door open for Alfred. Alfred walked inside, closing the door behind him and leaning against it, palms pressed flat to the smoothed wood of the door. He watched Arthur’s back—noticed the slump in his shoulders, the reserved way he carried himself—as if he, too, had come to a decision.   
  
“Arthur,” Alfred began, but lost his words as soon as Arthur turned around, looking to Alfred—  
  
The expression in his eyes. Alfred wasn’t sure whether he should look away or meet that gaze. There was something there on Arthur’s face—as if he himself were about to speak something, but could not find the words. His eyebrows slanted, his jaw clenched tight before he parted his lips. But no words came.   
  
Finally, after a long silence, Arthur cleared his throat. “Yes, Alfred?”   
  
Alfred hesitated for half a moment, then walked briskly across the room, going to Arthur. Before he could second-guess himself, or before Arthur could quite react, Alfred lifted his hands, cupped Arthur’s face, and bent down to kiss him. He kissed him soundly on the mouth, closed-lipped but forceful. His lips pressed stubbornly up to Arthur’s, and Alfred heard Arthur’s quiet inhale of surprise before Alfred felt the hesitant press of lips back.   
  
They stood there, kissing one another, as if they had something to prove—and then Arthur’s mouth parted a little and Alfred slumped against him, lips pillowing against Arthur’s, opening his own mouth to taste Arthur’s mouth. Arthur clung to him, tightly, but not possessively. Clung to him as if he was afraid Alfred would step away at any moment.   
  
They parted, slowly. Alfred blinked his eyes open, stroked his thumbs at Arthur’s cheekbones.   
  
Arthur breathed out, and slowly opened his eyes in turn, lifting his hands to curl his fingers around Alfred’s wrists.   
  
Something shifted in Arthur’s eyes. He took a step back, pulling his hands up to grab at Alfred’s. He held them tight and, walking backwards, pulled Alfred along with him. Alfred followed willingly, and together they drifted through the rooms, up the stairs, to the bedroom.   
  
“Arthur,” Alfred began, unsure where to start. “I truly…”  
  
But he trailed off again when Arthur looked up to him, his eyebrows furrowed. Thoughtful. Distant. Decided.   
  
“I know, Alfred,” Arthur said, slowly, his words weighted.   
  
Alfred frowned.   
  
Arthur shook his head and, with a few tugs on his hands, set Alfred down on the bed, looking up as Arthur crawled over him, hair falling into his eyes as he bent his head and kissed at Alfred’s jaw, peppering his face with soft, open-mouthed kisses.   
  
Arthur murmured something, but Alfred didn’t quite catch it—perhaps because it was an old language he did not know, or because the blood was ringing too loudly in his ears. Their hands found one another, peeling away their clothing slowly.   
  
“My men are gathering,” Alfred said, suddenly, as Arthur peeled away the last button of his shirt, pulling it off his shoulders.  
  
Arthur nodded. “As are mine.”  
  
They stilled, a quiet silence. Alfred blew out a long stream of air, uncertain and strained. Arthur shifted his hand, cupping Alfred’s cheek, stroking his fingers along the line of his jaw. Perhaps for the first time, Alfred noticed the bruises on Arthur’s hands.   
  
The hand fell away, and Arthur arched downwards, lips grazing against Alfred’s.   
  
“Let us not speak on it for now,” Arthur murmured against Alfred’s mouth, stroking the hair from his face. “I believe that… my dear lad, I believe this will be the last time.”   
  
He was staring right into Alfred’s eyes as he pulled away, and Alfred felt as if Arthur were saying _something_ , though Alfred could not know for certain. He lifted his hand, tangling his fingers into Arthur’s hair, and held tight.   
  
“Do you not want me anymore?” Alfred asked, brows furrowed.  
  
A touch of a smile tilted Arthur’s lips. He shook his head, eyes falling shut.   
  
“I have realized things about myself. I understand now. And… I have my suspicions. About what will become of you and me.”   
  
Alfred frowned. “Arthur—”  
  
Arthur pulled on Alfred’s pants, stripping him down to nothing. Naked, Alfred stared up at Arthur, and seemed to remember himself. He sat up, pulling at Arthur’s clothing, stripping him down to join him.   
  
Arthur kept his eyes shut and seemed to be too far away for even Alfred to drag him back.   
  
“As for whether I want you or not,” Arthur said, voice distant. “What a ridiculous question. You should know, better than anyone on this earth, that you are what I am fighting for. You are the reason I am fighting you.”   
  
Alfred’s breath caught, and he felt a spark of rebellion rise in his throat—wanting to protest, wanting to explain to Arthur, in vivid detail, why he was breaking away from Arthur, why he was going to be his own, independent country.   
  
But then Arthur’s hand fell to Alfred’s cock, stroking him firmly until he plumped up in Arthur’s hand—and Alfred lost his words in a startled, pleased gasp. Arthur’s hand drifted, from root to tip, touch feather-light as he stroked at the line of his cock, swirled around the dusty cockhead.   
  
Alfred closed his eyes, resting back on the bed with a sigh, fingers curling now into the blankets—almost afraid to hold onto Arthur.   
  
Arthur leaned over him, stroking his cock, the other hand splayed over his shuddering thigh. He felt Arthur shift above him, press up close to him, kissing at his chest and collarbone, over the shuddering pace of his heart. Alfred kept his eyes shut, focusing on Arthur’s touch, hearing his movements and feeling his lips and fingers upon his body. Like this, he could forget everything. Like this, he could ignore the festering hesitation deep in his gut.   
  
The lips on his collarbone and chest slowly drifted downward, kissing at his solar plexus, along the slump of his belly, along his navel. But his lips drifted away, kissing at the juts of his hipbones and over his thighs. One hand remained grasped around his cock, and Alfred’s breathing came out unsteady in his anticipation. Arthur stroked the cock as he kissed at Alfred’s inner thigh. His hair brushed against his cock occasionally as he moved closer, only to shift his mouth away, placing open-mouthed kisses on his hip, his knee, his belly button.   
  
“Arthur,” Alfred breathed out—not a plea, not begging. Just breathing.   
  
Arthur hummed in response, kissing at the spot just below his belly button, following the trail of hair downwards. Alfred’s cock bumped up against Arthur’s face, stroking at his cheek for a moment before, finally, Arthur turned his head and pressed a brush of a kiss against his cockhead. Alfred bit his lip, body tensing up in anticipation.   
  
His hand shifted, and then Arthur’s tongue licked the length of his cock, from the head down to the root. And then he turned his head again, kissing at Alfred’s inner thigh. His thumb pressed at the thick vein in Alfred’s cock, following the jagged line up and down.   
  
“Arthur,” Alfred said again, for lack of anything else to say.   
  
“I know, my dear lad,” Arthur whispered. “Patience.”   
  
Arthur tore himself away from Alfred completely, hand going to the side table and fetching the bottle of oil they’d always used up to this point. The amount was getting low, but Arthur had said—he’d said it would be the last time.   
  
Alfred’s heart lodged into his throat. He couldn’t make sense of why Arthur would say such a thing. Possibly because of the increase in battles around them—the gathering of troops. Alfred had confidence, determination—he would win. He had to win. But it would mean everything would end. It would mean—  
  
A finger entered him. Alfred hissed out in surprise, but his body was well-accustomed to Arthur’s ministrations. Arthur ducked his head, taking Alfred’s cock into his mouth and sucking sharply as he pushed his fingers into Alfred’s body. Alfred breathed out through his nose, trying to keep his hips tethered down as Arthur stroked his fingers inside him in tandem with the tongue stroking at the underside of his cock.   
  
Arthur paused, after a long moment, and pulled his mouth away. Alfred did not dare whimper, though he stared at Arthur—trying to silently guide him back to what he was doing. Instead, Arthur watched him. Then slid his body upwards, removing his hand and lining his body up with Alfred’s.   
  
They looked at one another as Arthur slowly pushed into Alfred. Alfred tensed up a little, but relaxed quickly enough—he had grown used to this. This had somehow become normal. This had somehow become what he wanted. Arthur bit his lip, staying silent until he was fully seated inside Alfred. . He let out a rush of air.   
  
“Alfred,” he breathed.   
  
Alfred grinned, despite himself, feeling wobbly and uneasy. He rolled his hips. “Come on.”   
  
Arthur responded to the hip roll with one of his own, his body jerking up and into Alfred. Alfred closed his eyes and sighed, relaxing underneath Arthur as Arthur started a steady pace. Discontent to grab at the blankets, Alfred rested his hands against Arthur’s hips, guiding him, feeling the jut of his bone and the tension of muscles beneath his fingertips.   
  
When he opened his eyes again, Arthur was staring at him, brows furrowed. Alfred blinked a few times, clearing his vision.  
  
“What is it?”   
  
Arthur frowned, and let out a long sigh. His body seemed to slump, and he shook his head.   
  
“I don’t want this,” he said.   
  
A jolt shocked through Alfred, and his eyes widened. “What—”  
  
Arthur reached out his hand, touched Alfred’s cheek. It silenced him. Alfred stared, unsure what to do to react to such a statement. His body had gone stiff, eyes still widened in surprised. His heart thundered, and Alfred chose to ignore the way those words twisted something deep in his chest.   
  
And Arthur was pulling away from him. But his hand was on Alfred’s cock, stroking him, his hand still oiled from before. He was out of Alfred now, straddling his body and sitting up on his knees, over Alfred.   
  
Alfred continued to stare on, uncertain, as Arthur lowered his eyes, focusing on Alfred’s cock. He stroked it, rubbing the oil over his cock and then shifting closer, sitting up over Alfred.   
  
And before Alfred could quite realize what Arthur was doing, Arthur was lowering himself onto Alfred’s cock. It was stifling—Alfred’s breath caught, eyes still wide open. He sat up a little, balancing on his elbows and staring up at Arthur incredulously.   
  
“Arthur, what are you—”  
  
Arthur silenced him with a look. Face flushed, mouth parted slightly, he seated himself on Alfred and Alfred realized with a strangled gasp that he was _inside of Arthur._ Never before this had he—  
  
He swallowed thickly as Arthur adjusted himself, staying very still as he adjusted. And then a touch of a smile quirked his lips upwards.   
  
“Big boy,” he said, softly, and Alfred flushed—unsure whether he should be embarrassed or pleased by such praise. He swallowed thickly again, feeling that all his words were impassable, stuck somewhere deep inside him.  
  
Arthur adjusted again, and then experimentally snapped his hips down onto Alfred. His breath came out in a quiet hitch, and he arched, planting his hands down on the bed on either side of Alfred’s shoulders. He leaned down a little, the hair in his eyes as he observed Alfred’s expression.  
  
“Alright, my darling?” he asked, and Alfred almost had to point out that it was Alfred who should be asking it—but instead, all he could do was nod.   
  
Arthur nodded, too, and resumed the pace from before, but this time instead of thrusting into Alfred, it was Arthur thrusting Alfred into himself. Alfred closed his eyes, squeezing Arthur’s hips. He soon picked up the pace, following Arthur, guiding Arthur so that he bobbed up and down on his cock. Arthur’s body heaved and arched as he moved, and Alfred felt his throat go dry as he watched every little movement Arthur made.   
  
Too stupefied to do much else other than guide Arthur’s hips and stare up at him, it was Arthur’s task to keep the pace going. He closed his eyes, head tilted slightly, as he drew Alfred up and into him. The bed creaked beneath their movements, and their breathing came out ragged and shuddering.   
  
Pausing for half a moment in their rhythm, Arthur leaned down, kissing Alfred’s forehead. Alfred’s breath caught, and before Arthur could pull away, he leaned up and caught Arthur’s mouth—kissing him for all he was worth. He lifted one hand from Arthur’s hips to cup the back of Arthur’s head, ensuring he couldn’t get away. He kissed him—he would never stop kissing him. He couldn’t—  
  
“Arthur,” he whispered against Arthur’s mouth.  
  
Arthur hummed in response, biting softly at Alfred’s lower lip and then smoothing his tongue over it. Alfred responded in kind, meeting his ministrations with his own, fingers tangling in his hair.   
  
They pulled away with soft gasps of air, eyes meeting. Arthur shifted forward, resting his forehead against Alfred’s—  
  
It was almost too much. Alfred closed his eyes. He wasn’t used to the gentleness. He was used to Arthur moving with precision, taking what he wanted and taking Alfred along with him. This Arthur was moving slowly, touching him, kissing him. It was a startling difference from the first time Arthur had taken him, up against a wall and kicking him out once they were both finished.  
  
Arthur interrupted Alfred’s thoughts when he sighed, and said, “I’m a fool.”   
  
“Huh?” Alfred asked.  
  
Arthur shook his head, touching Alfred’s cheek, brushing the hair away from Alfred’s eyes. He lifted his fingers, curling them around the defiant cowlick of hair and tugging, just slightly. Alfred closed his eyes, breathing out. Arthur continued the movements, stroking his fingers through Alfred’s hair and smoothing his fingertips over Alfred’s face.   
  
Belatedly, Alfred remembered to reach out his hand and touch Arthur, sliding his hand down his chest and reaching for his neglected cock.   
  
But before he could, Arthur shifted, grabbing Alfred’s hand with his own. Alfred blinked, and was about to speak, before something seemed to shift in Arthur’s eyes again. And he rolled his body, taking Alfred with him.   
  
They rolled so that Arthur was on his back, looking up at Alfred now. Alfred blinked down at him, unsure what to do now that he was in the position, slipped out of Arthur and staring down at Arthur. Arthur stared back up at him, open and accepting, eyes studying Alfred’s face.   
  
“Is this alright, I don’t—”  
  
“It’s alright,” Arthur said, lifting a hand and touching at Alfred’s bicep. It was a light touch, barely there. But it seemed to ground Alfred. The hand shifted, up over his shoulder before lifting and cupping the back of his head. “Alfred,” he said, quietly. “Take what you want now.”   
  
Alfred’s brows slanted downward, and the words hit him.   
  
Now was his chance—  
  
He could end everything right then. He could break Arthur. He realized, this was the moment—this was the moment he’d been waiting for this entire time, to break Arthur. If he wanted to be free, he would do it. He could hurt Arthur. He could crush Arthur. Leave him. Reveal everything for the ploy it was, cut his loses, and be free. This was the moment when he laughed in Arthur’s face, scoffed at him, rejected him, and damned him for all eternity.   
  
The hand curled into his hair, light and there.   
  
And Alfred realized he wasn’t moving.   
  
His body was stuck in a limbo—be free, hurt Arthur—protect Arthur—  
  
His breath halted, and his lungs constricted. It felt far too small and cold in the room, and his body just remained frozen. He was hesitating—  
  
He was hesitating when his future was looming in front of him: all he needed to do was this one thing and he would be victorious. He would be free. He would be independent. He would be rid of Arthur.   
  
And in the same moment he realized all that, he realized that, all along, he’d never intended to hurt Arthur. He’d never really wanted to hurt him. Not like this. He wanted to be free—but he didn’t want to crush Arthur, either.   
  
So instead of doing what he’d set up to do all this time, after all these nights with Arthur, Alfred instead leaned in and kissed Arthur—desperate, needy, possessive. He claimed Arthur’s mouth with his own, swept his tongue in and laid claim to him. Arthur responded, his mouth open, hands in his hair.   
  
He broke away only to focus as he guided his cock to Arthur and pushed into him again. Arthur shuddered beneath him, but other than a quiet sigh, did not react. Alfred pushed into him and, slowly, began to set a pace he’d always liked Arthur to set. All the while, his mind raced a mile a minute as he grappled with what he was now faced with—he was letting his chance slip him by, and other than the fearful reality that everything was falling apart, he didn’t care. But the ever-present whisper of _it’s your freedom, it’s your freedom_ hissed somewhere behind his ears and he clenched his eyes shut, thrusting up a little harder into Arthur than he’d intended.  
  
But the little cry Arthur gave him in response was one of pleasure. He shifted, curling his legs around Alfred’s hips, pressing his heels into the small of Alfred’s back, trying to push him in closer and deeper. Alfred dipped his head, kissing at every available inch of skin Arthur presented him with.   
  
“Alfred,” Arthur murmured. “What is the matter, boy?”   
  
Alfred paused in the flurry of feverish, desperate kisses upon Arthur’s neck and pulled away, thrusting up into Arthur.   
  
“What—do you mean?” he asked, breathless.   
  
Arthur was frowning, though there was a touch of something in his eyes.   
  
Alfred laughed, despite himself. “Nothing’s the matter—ah. Is it okay for you?”  
  
Arthur continued to study his face, before he seemed to give up and wrapped his arms around Alfred’s neck.   
  
“Faster,” he suggested, and Alfred obeyed, picking up the pace and thrusting up into Arthur with frenzied snaps of his hips. Arthur’s eyes fell shut and he clung to Alfred tightly.   
  
Alfred continued this pace, but his mind was elsewhere. He was taking Arthur, Arthur had willingly consented to him—and now was his chance. But he was letting it all slip away. He was letting everything he’d worked so hard for disappear.   
  
He hated to think this would all negatively affect his quest for freedom. He couldn’t give it all up—not for Arthur.  
  
And yet—  
  
Arthur gasped beneath him as Alfred—finally—struck something deep inside him. He bit his lip and arched up. Alfred bit his own lip, swallowing a few times to try to breathe properly. He continued to thrust his hips up, aiming for that same spot, and watching Arthur react to each push.   
  
It only took a few more thrusts before Alfred realized, with a shock, that he had reached his climax—and was spilling his seed inside Arthur. Arthur moaned something beneath him, body taut and holding him tight.   
  
Something lodged in Alfred’s throat.  
  
He snapped his hips up a few more times, weakly, as he emptied himself inside of Arthur.   
  
Somehow, he thought it should have felt more satisfying than it did. Instead, he only felt empty—felt like a liar, a cheater, a disgusting person. His chest was heavy. His throat was swollen with unspoken words—  
  
He had done this.   
  
And he couldn’t even finish what he started. He didn’t want to finish what he started.  
  
But his freedom—  
  
Mechanically, Alfred reached out his hand, fisted Arthur’s cock, and pumped him to climax. Arthur spilled out onto his hand, and Alfred felt the pressure pressing at the back of his eyes and willed it away—he was not weak. He was not weak. He could not be weak—  
  
He licked his tongue over his fingertips, collecting Arthur’s seed and tasting him. Arthur was breathing heavily beneath him.   
  
“It’ll all be okay,” Alfred said, suddenly.  
  
Arthur opened his eyes, looking up at him.   
  
“What?” he asked.   
  
“It’ll all be okay—because—it has to be. I can’t think that it wouldn’t. Everything that I’ve worked for will happen and even if you’re here—and I’m here. It’s. It’s okay. It has to be okay, and I—”  
  
He swallowed thickly.  
  
“I have to do this.”  
  
His hands couldn’t be shaking, he thought, numbly.   
  
He had to do this.  
  
But he had missed his chance.  
  
Arthur took his hands. “You seem to be trying to find as much nonsense as you can and put it all into a single breath, my lad.”  
  
Alfred recoiled, slightly, expression cracking. “It isn’t—”  
  
Arthur’s amusement melted away, and he frowned. “Alfred.”   
  
“It’s all alright. It has to be. Even so, I must…”  
  
He trailed off, and Arthur did not pick up the cue. Arthur did not speak. His expression seemed to darken a little, momentarily, as he stared at Alfred’s face. Alfred lowered his eyes—hated himself for that submission, but he truly could not look at Arthur’s face.  
  
He felt too cold. Arthur was still holding his hands.   
  
Arthur sighed out, quietly. “Alfred.”   
  
“I,” Alfred began, “I have to…”  
  
Arthur brought Alfred’s hands up, holding them tightly, and brushed his lips against his knuckles.   
  
“You are acting strangely.”   
  
“I’m not…” Alfred protested, but it sounded weak to his own ears. His body was in turmoil. He couldn’t think straight. His hands were shaking.   
  
“Won’t you tell me?”   
  
Alfred shook his head. “Nothing is wrong.”  
  
Arthur frowned, and took his hands away. Silently, he shifted to the side of the bed, retrieving the clothing they had discarded. He handed Alfred his clothes back, silently, eyes lowered. Alfred dressed in silence, mind still racing.   
  
He couldn’t get the buttons and ties properly, so after a moment Arthur stepped up and helped him.   
  
“I believe I know the reason for your distress,” Arthur said.   
  
“You don’t—”  
  
Arthur looked up, sharply, and Alfred fell silent. Arthur finished buttoning up Alfred’s shirt, stepped back, and looked at him. His hands rested on Alfred’s chest, one hand above where his heart stabbed a mile a minute against his ribcage.   
  
“You,” Arthur whispered, staring at Alfred’s chest, “do not have to pretend anymore. I have known of your plot all along.”  
  
Something stabbed through Alfred. He started, in surprise, and recoiled a little.  
  
Arthur lifted his eyes and stared at him.  
  
“No,” Alfred began, and then added, hastily, “I don’t know what you mean!”  
  
Arthur didn’t blink. He did not react. After a moment, though, his fingers curled into the front of Alfred’s shirt and drew him a little closer. Alfred stumbled, feeling as if he could not move properly on his own—not anymore.   
  
“You… you’re the one speaking nonsense now.”   
  
Arthur shook his head, slowly. “I am not. Do you honestly believe, boy, that I wouldn’t see my own tactics thrown back at me? The tactics of my enemies I’ve dealt with for centuries?”   
  
Alfred fell silent, eyes widened, eyebrows slanted back as he tried to ease the thundering in his chest. Arthur’s hands did not move.   
  
Arthur stepped closer, just one step. “Do you honestly believe, boy, that you could fool me of something like this?”   
  
“Then why did you let it get this far?” Alfred finally managed to whisper.   
  
Arthur studied his face.   
  
Then took another step closer, fingers curling. “I was going to do the same to you.”   
  
“But I—”  
  
“—don’t love me,” Arthur said, and Alfred’s first response was to protest, but he managed to stifle it. Arthur smiled a quiet, pained smile. “Yes, I know, Alfred. I know that you don’t. It was foolish for me to believe that perhaps I could…”   
  
He shook his head, and lowered his eyes away.   
  
Alfred breathed out, unsure how to react. Wanting to pull away, but wanting to stay.   
  
He couldn’t breathe.   
  
Arthur released his shirt and stepped away, still not looking at him, his eyes still slanted away from him. He was still smiling—but it didn’t seem to fit him at all. Alfred stood completely still.   
  
A chill ran up Alfred’s spine. “Arthur…”  
  
“Yes?” Arthur asked, and glanced up at him. He studied Alfred’s face for a moment before he straightened a little, running his hands over his own shirt, trying to sort out the wrinkles. “Yes, what is it?”   
  
“You—you knew all along.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“And you still let me do it?”   
  
Arthur shrugged one shoulder, looking miserable. “I intended to do it to you first.”  
  
“But you didn’t.”  
  
Arthur nodded. “I couldn’t.”   
  
The words were softly spoken, but weighed down with the honesty that Alfred both wished to dismiss and longed to hear. Somehow, he thought maybe it would be easier to just pretend that they both hated each other. But that was quickly spiraling away into lies and half-truths. Alfred swallowed thickly.   
  
“You couldn’t…?”  
  
“I could not treat you as my equal—as my enemy,” Arthur murmured. He lifted a hand, pressing it to his face, suddenly, seeming to bend into himself. “I couldn’t—this has never happened to me before. I’ve never hesitated about it before but… but by God, it’s you—”  
  
Alfred stepped forward, cupping Arthur’s cheeks suddenly. Arthur stared up at him in shock, eyes just a touch misty.   
  
Alfred’s mind was whirling—neither of them could do it. Neither of them could break the other. If Arthur’s feelings were the same as Alfred’s—then maybe, just maybe—  
  
Maybe it would all be okay. Everything was falling apart, everything was wrong. But they were both falling apart. They were both wrong. They could be together—  
  
“Join me,” Alfred said—and this time, he thought, he did almost sound as if he were begging.   
  
Arthur continued to stare at him.  
  
“Join me,” Alfred repeated, louder this time, voice desperate. “We don’t have to fight, Arthur—you just… have to support me. You can support me and then we’ll be okay, and everything will be okay. Support me and my revolution—let me go, and then we can be alright. I meant it when I said it before—that what happened here doesn’t have to reflect outside these walls. So join me.”  
  
Arthur stayed silent.  
  
Alfred’s hands shook as he shifted them from Arthur’s cheeks and to his hair. “Arthur… join me?”  
  
Arthur slanted his eyes away, and breathed in slowly. His body seemed to inflate, and then, just as slowly, he let the air sink away.   
  
“Arthur…” Alfred began, when the silence stretched on for too long.   
  
Arthur lifted his eyes and stared at him. And, calm as the eye of a storm, said, “I cannot.”   
  
Alfred jolted, and his hands fell away from Arthur. He almost stepped back, but he refused to back down.   
  
“What—”  
  
“I cannot,” Arthur repeated.   
  
“Arthur!” he cried out. “Do not forsake me because of your damned pride!” His anger bubbled inside his chest, his desperation, his frustration—everything was ruined now. “There is no one else in this wide world I can—”  
  
He cut himself off before he spoke the last word, the last, dreaded word. Somewhere in his heart he knew he’d already lost, but he would stubbornly hold out until the very end. He would not say it—he could not say it, not to Arthur.   
  
Arthur’s expression cracked, just a little. “I cannot, Alfred.”   
  
“How can you say that? Don’t you love me, Arthur?” Alfred asked, desperate, hating himself for the words but unable to stop them. “Isn’t that enough? Things don’t have to end today. They don’t have to… it can all be alright.”  
  
“Alfred…” Arthur began, expression still rippling into something akin to disarray.   
  
But he could not stop, would not stop. “You can. You can. It will be alright.”  
  
Arthur remained silent.   
  
“Won’t you support me, and love me? Won’t you devote yourself to me, sacrifice everything for me, and be mine forever?” Alfred asked, refusing to plead, staring straight at Arthur and daring him to refuse—daring him to deny him.   
  
Arthur blinked his eyes a few times and breathed out. Then he, slowly, shook his head. “I cannot support you, Alfred.”   
  
Alfred felt the spark of anger inside him ignite. He advanced on Arthur, but Arthur remained calm, did not flinch when Alfred’s hands curled into fists—  
  
Everything was falling apart, and he could not be sure why he was so angry for it. Why he was so angry for Arthur’s refusal—when he hadn’t truly expected it. But he wanted it, how he wanted it. He wanted everything to be okay, everything alright—he could amend for his mistakes this way, if only Arthur would stop being stubborn and just be with him, forever, as his ally, not as his colonizer.   
  
“Why not?” Alfred shouted. “Why can’t you—why can’t you do this, Arthur?”   
  
“Alfred,” he began, his voice sounding too much like it did whenever Arthur scolded him as a child.  
  
Alfred flared up. “So even after all this time, possessing me is more important than anything else? There is no one else in the world that I can—I can be with. Why won’t you support me? Why won’t you let me go? Let me go!”   
  
Something sparked in Arthur’s eyes. “Do you want to be let go, or do you want me to keep you? Make up your mind.”   
  
Alfred faltered, but only for a moment. The anger fueled him on. “Support me—then we can be together, as equals. But not as enemies. Just equals.”   
  
“In Heaven’s name, Alfred,” Arthur cried out, and sounded happy to be angry—if only for something, something to hold onto. “You cannot force such things upon me! You believe that I cannot wish you well while struggling for my own purposes, for my own plans—those that you yourself did not lay down.”   
  
Alfred clenched his jaw in his anger, hands fisted. But he could not really pinpoint why he was as angry as he was—only that he was angry. And Arthur was responding.   
  
“You have to choose. Do you support and love me? Or are you my enemy, in the end?”   
  
Arthur’s expression wavered, but the anger did not dissipated. Though when he spoke, it was a cool fire instead of a burning rage Alfred felt himself blasting out. “You will cast me away if I refuse you. You already have, if you are honest with yourself.”   
  
“I won’t cast you away if you agree to support me!” Alfred shouted, desperate.   
  
Arthur shook his head. “I cannot concede to you, Alfred. I can wish you well, I can wish for your happiness—but I cannot support you.”   
  
“No! You cannot say that! You are either with me or you are against me. There is no third choice for you.”   
  
The room fell deadly silent after these words. Alfred felt everything pulsing inside him—hoping, beyond hope, that Arthur would consent, that Arthur would surrender to him, be by his side, support and love him. He hoped, beyond everything, that he could win his freedom without having to truly hurt Arthur. But there was something in Arthur’s eyes—something had fractured. There was anger there, but there was something else.   
  
Arthur breathed, harshly, trying to gain his words. Alfred could see the way he spun through the words inside of him, trying to find the proper way to express himself.   
  
Alfred was not often patient—but he waited, now, with bated breath. Waited for Arthur’s response—waited for Arthur to speak the word so that everything would be alright, that they could be together. Together as equals, not as colonizer and colonized.   
  
“Take this, then, as my decision,” Arthur whispered, quieter than he ever had before, eyes holding his with silent intensity. “I doubt your success. I believe I will make you mine again, and then everything will return to as it once was.”   
  
Alfred felt his body tense up. “So you will not support me?”  
  
“No!”   
  
And the single word broke everything.   
  
Alfred had no response. He stood in silence.   
  
Arthur’s eyes were misty again, and Alfred hated him, hated him more than anything in that moment—to refuse him with such a face as that—  
  
“No?” Alfred repeated, mimicry down to the destitute tone.   
  
“No,” Arthur whispered, softer this time, but not lacking in its edge. He shook his head, slowly, back and forth, never taking his eyes from Alfred.   
  
“You say no,” Alfred murmured, “And truly believe I will fail and everything will return to as it once was? Everything is ruined now, Arthur—it can never return. It’s all done, it’s all over—everything is fractured!”   
  
Arthur’s expression rippled again. “I know,” he said, miserably. “I know…”   
  
“You can never have me again—not as you _wish_ to have me. That child is gone forever, I’m the only thing that’s left—and the way you want me—you cannot have me. You cannot win. You will not win. I will beat you. I will _take back_ my freedom—! And you will be that sick, sad man who clung to it until the last moments, and refused the opportunities to make things okay again.”   
  
Arthur didn’t respond, but his lips thinned out.  
  
“You look at me with that miserable look in your eyes—but you created this, Arthur! You’re the one that created this!”   
  
Arthur’s eyes lowered.   
  
There was no response.   
  
Alfred’s anger dimmed a little, at that, but he refused to back down. “You’re a stubborn old man if you think that anything can return. Nothing returns. All we can do is move on. All we can do is make the best of what we have—and you refuse even that much.”   
  
Still no response.  
  
Alfred stepped away, towards the door, no longer looking to Arthur.   
  
“You said you could not see me as your equal enemy—well. You should start. Because things will end, soon. I’ll make it so—on the battlefield, I will see you only as my enemy. You said you thought of breaking me, _England_. But in the end, you couldn’t go through with it.”   
  
He paused, but Arthur did not respond.   
  
“Well,” Alfred murmured. “I am not broken apart.”  
  
 _But you have broken me._   
  
He wrenched the door open.   
  
“You have broken me,” Arthur whispered, unknowingly repeating Alfred’s thoughts.   
  
Alfred froze.   
  
He looked over his shoulder, and saw Arthur looking at him—expression stony and blank. Their eyes locked and held.   
  
Arthur did not smile. He did not frown. He did not react.  
  
His words were icy cold as he spoke: “You did what you came to do, _America_. I am broken. But now I have nothing to lose—I will not let you go.”  
  
Alfred stared at him for a long moment, but, ultimately, did not respond. He slammed the door behind him and ran, faster than he’d ever run before—  
  
And he would never return to that home again.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
It was raining today. It hadn’t rained in a long time, but it would not stop him from fighting.   
  
Alfred adjusted his uniform, his coat hanging off his shoulders limply. He seized his musket and held it tight in his hand as the other hung limply by his side.   
  
He gazed at himself in a looking glass.   
  
The rain fell harder, and, slowly, Alfred curled his hand into a fist.   
  
“I love you, Arthur,” he told his reflection, whispered it to himself. In the silent, empty house. He pressed his limp hand to his face, his shoulders shaking for half a moment—just one little moment—before he was steady again.  
  
He straightened.   
  
He turned and left, walking out into the rain, going forward to join his men, where they would throw Arthur and his troops into surrender.  
  
He loved Arthur—  
  
And that was why he would end everything.


End file.
